Genesis
by thedragonaunt
Summary: Starting at a new school is tough for everyone but when you are Sherlock Holmes - the 'Geek' from Prep School -tough does not begin to cover it. Rated T for graphic descriptions of bullying and for emotional distress. The lovely Cover Image is by the very talented AOB. Many thanks to her!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: This story has been bubbling away in my hindbrain, like a coffee percolator, and has finally pinged, like a microwave oven, and delivered itself to my forebrain, like a dumb waiter. (Did you see what I did there?) **

**Usual disclaimers, vis a vis copyright – 'Nowt to do wi' me, guvnor, big boy did it and ran away!' **

**Genesis**

**by**

**thedragonaunt**

**Chapter One**

The chauffeur driven Rolls Royce took the slip road off the A1 and circumnavigated the roundabout, taking the exit for the A41 towards Central London, with its two passengers, sitting side by side on the leather upholstery of the back seat, the two brothers not speaking, one looking straight ahead, the other gazing morosely out through the side window at the unfamiliar landscape, as it rolled past.

'Oh, for goodness sake, stop snivelling, can't you?' the elder brother snapped. 'And wipe your bloody nose!'

Sherlock looked up at his brother and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his brand new bluer.

'Oh, good God, don't you have a handkerchief?' Mycroft hissed.

'No, I don't,' replied Sherlock, petulantly. Mycroft put his hand to his breast pocket and pulled out a clean, white, neatly folded handkerchief, shook it out and thrust it at his little brother. Sherlock took it, blew his nose, noisily, wiped the mucus, roughly, from his jacket cuff and then held the handkerchief out to his big brother.

'I don't want it back now, you idiot! Put it in your pocket and remember to use it, not your sleeve,' Mycroft instructed him. Sherlock scrunched up the handkerchief and thrust it into the pocket of his greyers, also brand new and being worn for the first time since he had tried them on at the school shop, back in June, when he had come down for the New Pupils' Barbeque, in his last term at Prep School. Sherlock Holmes was about to embark on the next phase of his education. He was on his way to Harrow School, for his first term. He would be joining the school as a member of The Park, one of the oldest houses, which would be his home for thirty-five weeks of every year for the next five years.

Sherlock's parents had been 'otherwise engaged', so his older brother, Mycroft, had been given the onerous task of delivering him to his house master, on this momentous day in his life, and neither brother was too thrilled about that situation. Mycroft was an Old Etonian, about to begin his third and final year as an under-graduate at Keeble College, Cambridge. He would far rather be anywhere else than having to baby-sit his snot-nosed sibling, who had insisted on blubbing, the whole of the way from their family home in Hertfordshire. Sherlock, on the other hand would have far rather been anywhere else, too. He had not particularly enjoyed prep school but he had, at least, made a couple of friends there – the other boys referred to them as the 'Geek Squad' – but neither of those boys had applied to Harrow, so Sherlock was about to be deposited at a place where he knew absolutely no one. And he was not the sort who made friends easily. Actually, he was acquainted with some of the boys with whom he would be sharing a house for the next five years. He had made their acquaintance, if one could call it that, on the rugby pitches of the many other prep schools that his school had played against in the prep school rugby division. His exploits on the rugby pitch had mostly consisted of him being dived upon by up to fifteen boys from the opposing side and then carried off, to spend the rest of his Saturday afternoon either in sick bay or, more often, at A and E. He actually held the school record for the number of trips to hospital in one rugby season –it was the only school record he did hold. He had begged his mother to tell the school to excuse him rugby but she, having never witnessed a rugby match, had no idea how brutal a game it could be and told him he would soon get used to it. Sherlock was not ideally built for rugby, being tall and skinny, but he was fast, so he was always used as a winger. However, that meant he was expected to score tries, which made him a target for all the forwards of the opposing teams, who felt duty bound to flatten him. The full backs on his team were supposed to protect him but he was a 'geek' and not a 'jock' so they did not feel overly protective towards him. Sometimes it was just more fun to watch him disappear under a pile of bodies. Matron eventually took pity on him, or perhaps on herself, as she had been required to spend many a Saturday evening at A and E, watching him get patched up, so she began to keep him Off Games rather longer than was strictly necessary and would give him a library pass, which permitted him to spend his Saturday afternoons in the warmth and comfort of the school library, reading science journals or books about criminology or famous criminals, like Jack the Ripper, or just to hide away where no one would find him.

Sherlock had no desire to be reacquainted with any of these boys but he already knew that three of his old nemeses were members of his new house in his new school. They had all met up, last summer, at the aforementioned New Pupils' Barbeque. He had been accompanied on that occasion by his mother. She had been in her element there, enjoying the attentions of the house master, the house tutors and several of the other new boys' fathers, much to the annoyance of the house master's wife and many of the other boys' mothers. Tall, elegant and beautiful, she attracted men like wasps round a jam pot. It was what she did best. Sherlock had spent most of the afternoon sulking in a corner, whilst the other new boys reacquainted themselves with their fellows whom they had previously met through the social network of prep school sports. They seemed to have the ability to form instant bonds of friendship – something which Sherlock had never managed to fathom. He had spent the entire summer dreading this day when he would be thrown in amongst them and have to sink or swim.

The car slid to a halt, in the vicinity of The Park. There were lots of other cars parked all around or manoeuvring through the narrow streets of Harrow-on-the-Hill, as eight hundred boys were delivered back to school by their relatives or guardians. Mycroft got out of the car and came round to Sherlock's door, opened it and told him to get out. He then led the way along the pavement, followed by Sherlock and the chauffeur, who carried Sherlock's sports bag and dragged his school trunk, on castors, to the front door of his school house. Once inside, Mycroft was greeted by a House Monitor, a senior boy, just two years Mycroft's junior.

'Good afternoon. sir,' the young man addressed Mycroft as he had the relatives of all the other boys who had arrived that day. 'Who have you brought to us today?'

'Holmes,' Mycroft answered, looking bored. The monitor consulted his clip board.

'Absalom!' he called, and a smaller boy, who had been sitting with other smaller boys on a bench, just inside the entrance lobby, jumped up and came over. Sherlock vaguely remembered him from the barbeque day.

'Holmes, this is your shepherd. He will be looking after you for your first two weeks here, show you the ropes and what not. He will show you to your room.'

The boy, Absalom, gave Sherlock a crooked grin and led the way up the stairs. Sherlock followed him, then came the chauffeur, still dragging the trunk, although Absalom had relieved him of the sports bag, and Mycroft brought up the rear, looking around with the mildly disapproving stare of an ex-member of 'Slough Comp', as Eton was referred to by Harrovians. They arrived at a room which contained two beds, two chairs, two wardrobe/chests of drawers and two desks, with book shelves above. One of the beds had already been claimed, as it was newly made up with fresh bed linen and a trunk was open and half empty on the floor beside it. Some books and personal items had been arranged on the book shelves and the open wardrobe door revealed clothes neatly hung on wooden hangers.

'Looks like someone already bagged that one. He seems to have scarpered but I expect you'll get to meet him soon enough,' Absalom commented. 'This one will be yours, then. Best get unpacked and sorted out. Tea is at four o'clock. I'll come up for you then.' He dropped Sherlock's sports bag onto the floor next to his bed and, grinning again, left them to it. The chauffeur positioned the school trunk next to the bed, also, then turned to Sherlock, removed his cap and offered him his hand.

'Good luck, Master Sherlock,' he said, as he shook the boy's hand. 'I'll be back to collect you for your first exeat, in about a month.' Sherlock's eyes began to fill with tears again at this small gesture of kindness from his family's employee, at which Mycroft scowled. Turning to Mycroft, the chauffeur said,

'I will wait in the car, Master Mycroft,' and, replacing his cap, left the room. Mycroft strolled over to Sherlock's desk, pulled out the chair and sat, elegantly crossing one leg over the other.

'Come on. You'd better get on with it or you will be late for tea.' Sherlock wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and set to the task of unpacking his school trunk into the drawers and cupboards of his new home.

ooOoo

At about five to four, when Absalom, Sherlock's shepherd, arrived to escort them down to the Private Side Hall, the room where the New Pupils' Tea would be served, Sherlock had managed to stuff all his belongings, one way or another, into his wardrobe and chest of drawers. His books were placed, willy-nilly on his book shelves and his sports kit bag was on top of the wardrobe. Mycroft still sat at by the desk and had not lifted a finger to assist him, just watched with disdain his attempts at housekeeping.

Absalom led them down stairs to Private Side Hall and then left them, as he went to join other Remove boys, who were walking around the room with plates of sandwiches and cakes, serving the adults and young boys, and some girls, who were siblings of the new boys. A lady in a smart grey trouser suit was serving tea to anyone who approached the tea table, where she stood, and also juice to the younger members of the assembled host. She happened to catch Sherlock's eye and smiled but he just stared at her and then continued to look around at the other people in the room. Mycroft was approached by the house master, Mr Wilson.

'Good afternoon. Mr Holmes, I presume?' he asked.

'Indeed,' said Mycroft with a pompous smile and a slight bow, shaking the house master's proffered hand.' Turning to Sherlock, the HSM said,

'Did you have a good summer, Holmes?'

'Yes, sir, thank you, sir,' replied Sherlock, though his facial expression did not match the sentiment of the words.

'Good!' said the HSM, cheerfully, and turned to engage Mycroft in conversation. For want of anything better to do, Sherlock wandered over to the tea table and stood in line to be served. When it was his turn, the lady in the grey suit said,

'What would you like, sweetie?' Sherlock was tempted to say he would rather like to go home but he knew that was not an option so he asked, politely, for a cup of tea. The lady poured it and invited him to add his own milk and sugar.

'You are Holmes, aren't you?' she asked. He nodded, mutely.

'I'm Matron. I think we did meet in the summer but you probably don't remember,' she explained. He shook his head.

'I will be having a little chat with all you Shells this evening, after supper, in my sitting room, just to tell you all the things you need to know about my role in the house. There'll be hot chocolate and marshmallows. Do you like those?' she asked. He nodded. Then someone else wanted tea, so he took his cup and saucer and went to stand in a corner, out of the way, to drink his tea.

Eventually, the house master tapped his cup with a spoon to bring the room to silent attention.

'Ladies, gentlemen and young people,' he began, 'the time has come for you to leave your boys in our care. I can assure you that my staff and I will do everything in our power to ensure that their transition to boarding life is as smooth and seamless as possible. Remember, we are just a phone call away. If you mums, dads and siblings would care to make your way out of the house, a monitor will take you on to your meeting with the Head Master.' The parents of the other boys began to make their way towards the exit, with lots of hugs and last minute words of advice for the boys being left behind, and Mycroft approached Sherlock.

'Look here, old man, here is some pocket money. Try to make it last until your exeat, at least.' Mycroft pressed a twenty pound note into his hand, as he shook it, and then turned and walked out of the room. The twelve new Shells and the twelve Removes, who were their shepherds, were left in the Hall, with the HSM, the House Tutors and Matron. Then Mr Wilson spoke,

'Right, chaps, you have about half an hour, now, before you go for your first assembly as pupils at Harrow. Use it wisely. Go and finish unpacking. If you have any medication, please give it to Matron and if you have any pocket money, bring it to Queue now, in my study.'

Sherlock followed the HSM to his study and stood in front of his desk whilst the man wrote his name in a large ledger, recorded the deposit of £20 and took the note from him.

'Are you unpacked, Holmes?' he asked.

'Yes, sir', he replied.

'Got anything to give to Matron?'

'No, sir.'

'Good, then you are a free man for the next twenty minutes. Go and find something useful to do.' Sherlock, considering himself dismissed, left the study and walked back up the stairs to his room. As he walked into the room, he was confronted by a group of boys, all sitting on and around the bed of his roommate. He stopped in the doorway, taken by surprise. The boys all stopped talking and turned and looked at him. There was a short pause, and then one boy gasped,

'Oh, look who you are bunking in with, Morris. It's The Geek from Brambletye' Just my luck, he thought. I'm bunking in with a jock. The jock in question was built like a brick outhouse – clearly a prop forward – and had been instrumental, on many occasions, in arranging Sherlock's Saturday evening entertainment. As all the boys stood up and turned to look at him, Sherlock did an about turn and bolted from the room, down the stairs, through the hall way and out of the front door. Once outside, he had no idea which way to go, so he randomly turned right and ran down hill until he came to another right turn, which he took as well, and continued to run downhill, until the road ran out and the landscape opened up into a wide green expanse. He slowed down and then stopped, looking around. Panic abated, he was beginning to regret doing a runner. He had a vague notion that this might be the school sports centre. He seemed to remember that the back garden of his house gave direct access to this green space, so he reasoned that, if he made another right turn, he would have gone round three sides of a square and then one more right turn would bring him up to the back of the house. He might then be able to sneak back in, before he was missed. Following this logic, he set off across the school golf course, hopeful of finding his new home with relative ease. Sadly, Sherlock's luck did not seem to be with him that day.

'You, boy! What are you doing here?' a voice called out. Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned to see a man, in jeans, a sweater and a cycling jacket, striding towards him, across the grass. He stood, feeling apprehensive as the man approached. He had short, light-brown hair and a short-trimmed, ginger beard and moustache. He looked quite young, maybe late twenties, early thirties. When he reached Sherlock, he stopped and looked down at him, in quite a friendly way.

'I'm guessing you're a new Shell, yes?' he asked.

'Yes, sir,' Sherlock nodded.

'Which house are you?' Sherlock told him.

'So how did you get out here?'

'Don't really know, sir.' Much to his deep shame, Sherlock felt the tears welling in his eyes again and he tried to blink them away but that just made them more obvious.

'Well, you are a bit out of your way, boy. What's your name?' the man asked.

'Holmes, sir,' Sherlock squeaked, past the lump in his throat.

'Well, Holmes, I'm Mr Anders. I'm a beak, Sculpture teacher, actually. If you come along with me, I'll show you the way back to your house.'

'Please, sir. Please would you show me the way to the garden? I would really rather they didn't know I'd been out,' Sherlock gave Mr Anders a pleading look. The beak looked back at him, weighing up what the boy had requested then made a decision. He put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and turned him around.

'Come on, then,' he said, and Sherlock detected a slight twang of a Northern accent. 'You'll probably get me sacked but I'll take you to the back door.' Mr Anders led Sherlock back up the hill and they eventually came to a pathway which led along the back of his house. Just as he was beginning to think he had made it back undiscovered, the house matron – the lady in the grey suit – suddenly appeared on the path ahead. She spotted him immediately and stopped short, looking exceedingly relieved.

'Oh, Holmes, where have you been? We've been looking everywhere!' she declared. Mr Anders gave Sherlock an apologetic look and spoke to the lady.

'I found him wandering about on the golf course, matron. I think he must have taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way.'

'Well, thank goodness he ran into you, Mr Anders. Thank you so much for bringing him back. Come along, Sherlock, let's get you in.' She took him back to The Park, through the garden and the back door. Once inside the house, they went straight to the HSM's study, where the relief and explanation scenario was re-enacted.. The house master turned to him and gave him a long, concerned look.

'Now, you know you are not in trouble, don't you, Holmes? You are in Grace for the first two weeks of your time here, so we can cut you some slack but you really must promise me you will not have any more adventures, is that clear?' he concluded.

'Yes, sir,' Sherlock conceded.

'Right, well, you'd better cut along or you'll be late for Speech Room.' Sherlock left the study, to be met by his shepherd, who had been waiting outside the room.

'What did you scarper for, you twit?' he asked, angrily. 'You nearly got me in Skew. I'm supposed to take care of you. Anyway, come on.' Absalom marched off towards the school hall and Sherlock trotted after him, to keep up.

Reba Everett turned to the house master.

'I think we are going to have to keep a close eye on young Master Holmes,' she said.

'Yes,' agreed Mr Wilson. 'God, people think these boys are so privileged. Materially, yes, but emotionally? Positively neglected, some of them.'

'Well, that's where we come in, isn't it,' she reminded him.

**I've taken a bit of a liberty here, with poetic licence, putting Sherlock in BC's school and house so, if I've upset any purists, I apologise. But this is just a plot device, hopefully, to ground this in the real world.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Usual disclaimers: not my characters (though some are, obviously), just borrowed from ACD, MG and SM, who are all gods, for the sheer joy of writing for them. No profit, just pleasure.**

**Chapter Two**

Whilst the Shells were at Speech Room, attending their first assembly at Harrow, the matron took a walk round their rooms to check the status of their unpacking. Usually, at the start of their first term, and quite often at the beginning of every term, the mums unpacked for them and this was certainly the case today. She observed that the dorms would never look so tidy again, once the residents returned. Holmes' unpacking was the one notable exception. She had been in this job for a number of years, now, and it never ceased to amaze her that some parents could actually send their children off to boarding school and not even bother to bring them themselves. On one particular occasion, she recalled, it was the family chauffeur who brought the poor child – although, actually, he did a very good job of settling the young man into his dorm and seemed to have a good rapport with the boy. Perhaps the child saw more of him than he did his real parents. But that was most definitely not the norm. More often than not, the mothers, in particular, would be quite tearful at the prospect of leaving their young off-spring in the care of relative strangers and there would be many anxious phone calls over the next few days, as parents rang to check that their child was OK. But, occasionally, one would get a boy like this one, who had been delivered by his older brother – barely more than a child, himself – and dumped. There was no other word for it. What could possibly be so urgent that it out-weighed the importance of settling your child into his new school, especially when one was not going to see him for at least a month? She sometimes wondered why some people bothered to have children at all, but then, for some of these families, it was basically a matter of securing the blood line – heir and a spare.

As she surveyed the train wreck that was Holmes' unpacking, her heart went out to the little scrap of humanity who had already done a runner, barely an hour into the new term. This one would need a lot of extra TLC. She set to, emptying his drawers and wardrobe and re-storing all his belongings, folding them neatly, hanging them on hangers – none from home, here, she noted; just the wire ones that the dry cleaners provided. She would get him some more rigid hangers from her stock of spares, as the wire ones bent so easily and then the heavier items fell off, into the bottom of the wardrobe, to become creased and soiled. With the practiced hand of experience, she soon had his storage organised, straightened his books and files and placed his toilet bag on his chest of drawers instead of his desk – toothpaste and school work did not mix well. She noted, also, that his duvet was twisted inside the cover. This was one of the first things she taught the new boys – how to change a duvet. She sorted his bedding and straightened it on his bed. Where was his bedtime toy, she wondered? The boys usually brought a bedtime toy and most of them continued to take their toy to bed, even in the Upper Sixth. It was a talisman, a link with home. This boy did not seem to have one, at all. She found that almost unbearably sad.

That evening, after the house master had had the new boys in his study, for a briefing about house and school rules, they were sent on to her, in her sitting room, to give them the goods on things like changing their clothes regularly, and their bed linen; personal hygiene; laundry drill; self-medication and the like. It was important to lay down all these ground rules from the beginning, since once a bad habit was established, it was hard to shift. She always sweetened this pill with hot chocolate and marshmallows and she began the session by having each boy introduce himself to her and the others. Many of them knew one another already, from Prep School. Even those who were not at the same school had met up at sporting fixtures. The world of private education was a very close knit community. As this new batch of Shells filed into her sitting room and arranged themselves on the sofas, chairs and bean bags, it was very obvious that young Holmes was not yet 'one of the team'. It always amazed her how quickly these boys bonded and became a band of brothers. It happened right before one's eyes. But, in almost every year group, there was usually one who did not seem to gel easily. Usually, this was a temporary hitch, a late developer who soon caught up, but sometimes the odd one out never, ever got to be 'one of the boys' and she had a bad feeling that Holmes might well be one of those. He came last into the room and chose a straight-backed chair to sit on, against the wall. The others piled in like puppies and flopped down everywhere, leaning on one another, squishing two in a chair, arms over one another's shoulders, legs in a tangle. Holmes looked at them as though they were an alien species.

When it came to introductions, she went first.

'My name is Miss Everett. You may call me that or you may call me Matron; that is up to you. I even answer to 'Sir', sometimes, if I think it's a genuine mistake but don't push your luck.' Then she asked each of the boys to say who they were and a bit about themselves, starting with the boy on her left. They all did this dutifully, some being purely factual, some making a joke, some making a mistake and having to start again, which seemed to be a source of great hilarity amongst these prepubescent future politicians and captains of industry. When it came to Holmes' turn, she heard a few sniggers, even before he started speaking, so she fixed the culprits with a beady eye. They stopped and looked suitably chagrined but she knew there was a potential for bullying here and she made a mental note to speak to the house reps on the ABC (Anti Bullying Committee) and ask them to be on their guard on Holmes' behalf. Formalities over, she got on with the talk and rounded it off with a quick demo of how to change a duvet cover without finishing up inside it yourself, then it was time for the refreshments and she served them, from a thermos jug she had prepared earlier. She had advised the boys to bring a mug each but someone usually forgot so she always had a couple of spares. It was no surprise to see that Holmes did not have a mug. She poured chocolate into one of hers and handed it to him, then offered him the bowl of marshmallows, to help himself. He was extremely polite but she could see that he was not enjoying this gathering at all. He did not join in any of the banter and he was the first to leave when she announced that it was time to go and get ready for bed.

First night back was always difficult. Even some of the really senior boys suffered from homesickness on the first night. She remembered Percy, a boy from a couple of years back, who right up until he left, at eighteen, would knock at her door in the middle of the night, first night after every holiday, sobbing piteously. Her technique with him was to talk at him on any banal subject she could think of until she saw his eyes begin to droop and then pack him back to his room, where he invariably dropped straight off – she called it 'boredom therapy'. So, having seen the new boys into their beds and made sure that the older boys were all safely back and had handed over their medications, she returned to her flat and sat, in the sitting room with the door open, reading a book and waiting for the first victim of homesickness to put in an appearance. One essential prerequisite of this job was to be able to manage on very little and often disturbed sleep.

Next morning, at7.15, Reba Everett was on her rounds, knocking on doors, waking up sleepy boys and making sure they all got off to breakfast. Meals were compulsory and were served for the whole school in Shepherd Churchill Dining Hall. No one was allowed a lie in. The Shells were up early anyway, too excited or perhaps apprehensive to sleep in, and she was pleased to see that all the shepherds had reported for duty and were taking their protégés to the dining hall. Strictly speaking, matrons were not required to wake the senior boys, as they were supposed to be becoming independent in preparation for going off to university next year, but there were certain individuals who would sleep through an artillery volley, let alone a breakfast bell, so she made sure they were at least stirring, then went to open her surgery. There was already a queue but mostly not for medication. Some needed a tie, some a shirt, one boy had managed to come back to school without packing any uniform at all, so he needed a full kit, from the second hand cupboard.

'What did I say at Callover, last night, Harris? Check before lights out that you have everything you need for the morning. Don't leave it 'til tomorrow. Do you remember my saying that?' she quizzed the errant boy.

'Yes, Matron, but then I forgot. Sorry, Matron,' he wheedled.

'Lucky for you I'm feeling generous today. I could send you out in Sunday dress.'

'Not really, Matron. I left that at home, as well,' he confessed.

'Get on with you, you pain in the….ankle,' she retorted and sent him off with a full set of kit.

Once she had cleared the back log of boys needing her attention, she made her way to the laundry room to check in with 'the ladies', her team of domestic cleaners, who managed to keep this house of seventy boys clean, reasonably tidy and fresh smelling, despite the boys' best efforts to the contrary. They were a good team of local ladies, who all worked part-time and liked the hours, as they fitted in with their own children's school times. They were not permitted access to the boys' rooms until they had all gone off to morning assembly, by 8.30 am, but the Sewing Lady, Glenda the Mender, as she was styled by the boys, was always in by 7.30 am, to carry out any emergency repairs that needed to be done immediately. The other ladies came in as their contracted hours specified. These ladies were a second line of defence for the matron. They each had their own cleaning area, which they guarded jealously and in which they took great pride. They got to know the boys who occupied their areas like their own children and would soon notice if something were amiss. Some of these ladies went on to become matrons, as vacancies arose, having learned the ropes at this level, so it was a little like having a team of assistant matrons working with one. Glenda was sitting at her sewing machine, hemming the cuffs of one of the boy's greyers, whilst he stood waiting, in his boxers.

'Williams, did you not think to ask your mum to get that done over the holidays?' the matron asked him.

'Sorry, Matron. Slipped my mind,' he pleaded.

'That is impossible, Williams. I have it on good authority that you do not have a mind,' she retorted, giving him a playful poke in the upper arm. Glenda finished the hemming and gave him back his trousers and he thanked her and, smiling at both ladies, heading off towards breakfast, hopping on one leg as he tried to put the garment on, en route.

'Morning, Matron. What's the new bunch like, then?' Glenda asked, cheerfully. She was one of those ladies whom people described as 'the salt of the earth'. She had worked in The Park for over thirty years, starting out as a basic cleaner, in the days when there were no carpets in the house and the beds were all made of metal. Now she was Sewing Lady, Housekeeper to the house master and the unofficial 'senior lady'. Glenda was a one-woman walking archive, who could name every single boy who had been a member of the house, since she came to work there and tell you an amusing anecdote about any of them.

'Morning, Glenda. Not a bad bunch, I don't think. There is one, in particular, we need to keep an eye on: Sherlock Holmes. He's very quiet, quite withdrawn, in fact. He did a runner yesterday, just after the parents left – not his parents, mind. They didn't even show. His older brother brought him and wasn't too happy about having to, either. If you see him wandering around, just give him a bit of time, will you? He's a good looking child. Quite tall for his age, very slim, dark wavy hair, beautiful eyes, amazing cheek bones – the very image of his mother. I remember her from the barbeque in the summer. She upset a lot of the new mums by fluttering her eyelashes at their husbands. Typical socialite, she couldn't find the time to bring her little scrap to big school on his first day. Oh, shut my mouth, bad matron, I should not jump to conclusions,' she chided herself, though she did not believe she was far wrong.

The bell for Callover rang, and Matron went to Reader, the room where roll call was taken and house meetings were held. As the boys made their way out of the house to go to Chapel, she scanned each one, top to toe, to make sure they were properly dressed. Custos, the Head Master's right hand man was overall responsible for ensuring that uniform was impeccably worn by all the boys in the school, at all times. He could issue a Custos Report for a uniform infringement and the recipient would then be required to report to him before 7.40 the following morning for inspection, having had twenty-four hours to correct the fault. The current Custos was a former Regimental Sargent major and commanded great respect amongst the boys, as he patrolled the school environs, in his distinctive uniform of tail coat and grey trousers. The house matrons, however, took great pride in the appearance of their boys and saw it as a personal failure if any of them incurred a Custos Report, so went to great lengths to ensure they all left the house in good order. She pulled up a couple for minor infringements – shirts not tucked in, ties not tied properly, top shirt button not fastened – and a couple of more serious failures – wearing non-regulation items of clothing. These, she sent back to their rooms to change the offending item for the correct one. The Shells were all impeccably dressed. How long would that last, she wondered?

ooOoo

Buri Anders was in his ceramics studio, housed in a former Fives court, on The Hundred Steps, which gave access between Wellington Terrace and West Street, setting up for his first lesson with a new group of Shells. Today, as a taster session for these new boys, he had planned for them to make pinch pots and coil pots but first they would all be having a lesson in studio etiquette. He ran a highly disciplined ship. Ceramics was an area which combined art and chemistry and many of the substances used in the making of pottery were hazardous so his first task, with any new group of pupils, was to read the riot act on the do's and don'ts specific to this environment.

Mr Anders was of Scandinavian descent, as evidenced by his surname and rather unusual forename, after the first god in Norse mythology, grandfather of Odin. His mother clearly had big ambitions for her son, giving him that name and he had lived up to those expectations. From quite humble beginnings, in a northern town, he had made it all the way to an MA from the Royal College of Art and the post of Artist in Residence and part time Sculpture teacher at this prestigious public school. This was his second year at Harrow and he had taken on the additional responsibility of becoming resident tutor at Gayton, an overspill house for Removes that was also used as a therapeutic environment for boys whom it was thought might benefit from a quieter atmosphere, with a higher adult to pupil ratio, for a specified period of time. This was a small house, just sixteen beds, and the residents still spent time in their own houses but lived in Gayton. Buri was looking forward to this new challenge, especially working with the more troubled boys. He had had his own fair share of troubled times, as a child and teenager, which he had overcome so he felt this could give him an insight into where some of these young men were coming from.

Just as he completed his lesson preparations, he heard footsteps coming up the metal stairs towards the Sculpture Department, and his first Shell group of the new school year arrived. He went to the door of his studio and waited for the boys to quiet down, and then he began their induction into the world of ceramics.

ooOoo

**A/N: I hope the Harrow terminology is self-explanatory, in context, but, if not, you can look it up on their website and it gives you a list of the most common terms. Cheers!**

5


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, ACD, MG and SM do. No one pays me to write, but just you try and stop me!**

**Chapter Three**

In Reba Everett's experience, the effects of emotional neglect manifested themselves in a number of ways, along a broad spectrum, between two extremes, which were overt, over-the-top attention-seeking behaviour, in the form of persistent demanding, of the 'Me! Me! Me!' variety; and a withdrawn, attention aversion behaviour, keeping an ultra-low profile. These were both learned behaviours, the first based on the premise that, if one shouted long and loud enough, someone would answer and the second on the discovery that, no matter how long or loud one shouted, no one ever answered. It was rare to meet either of these two extremes – most slotted in somewhere within the middle range – but this Holmes boy seemed to be a classic example of the lower end of the spectrum.

In lessons, he was hard working and diligent and his work was of a high standard. He excelled in Maths and Science but he was more than competent in English, History and Geography and he also seemed to have a talent for languages. When asked a direct question, he would always have the correct answer, but he would never volunteer information, never put up his hand to ask for anything to be explained or clarified. His written work was exemplary – neat, ordered and well-reasoned. He would have been a model pupil if it were not for the fact that he always had that air about him that he was not really there, in body or in spirit.

The matron gained first-hand experience of his ability to hide in plain sight one morning, towards the end of the first week of term. She came into the front lobby, where the boys collected their post and newspapers, to find the day's mail left on the table, waiting to be sorted into the boys' pigeon holes. She was about half way through this sorting task when she suddenly noticed Holmes, standing in the corner. He had not just come in. He had clearly been there all the time but she had not spotted him. When she did, it startled her so much, that it made her jump, which in turn caused him to jump.

'Oh, Sherlock, you did scare me there!' she laughed. 'Were you wondering if you had some post? Let me have a look, for you.'

'No, thank you, Matron. I won't have any post,' he answered, solemn as ever.

'How do you know that? I expect your mum will have written, or your dad or maybe even your brother? They will want to know how you are settling in, won't they?' she insisted.

'No, Matron, I don't think so. They're very busy,' he replied. She stood looking at him, lost for words.

'I was wondering whether my newspaper would have been delivered,' he said, explaining the reason for his being there.

'Oh, no, the papers won't be delivered today, sweetie. The order only went in yesterday and it takes the newsagent a day to get it sorted, it being such a big order, for the whole school. It should be here tomorrow though,' she assured him. He looked disappointed and was about to walk away so she said,

'How are you finding things, Sherlock? Are you settling in alright?' He nodded.

'And keeping on top of everything you need to do?' she asked. He nodded, again.

'What about Eccer? Have you chosen your sport for this term?' He shook his head.

'Well today is the deadline, you know. Let's go and have a look at the list and see if we can tempt you with something,' she suggested, and beckoning him to follow, she led the way through the house until they came to the Games Noticeboard, where a list of Shell games choices was pinned. Most of the new boys had put their names down in one slot or another for their choice of sporting activity for the term. One or two, like him, had not.

'Right, let's have a look,' she said, running her eye down the list of choices, 'what about rugby?' She saw a cloud pass across his face and knew that rugby definitely was not his game.

'No? OK, how about Fives? That's a bit like squash, but you hit the ball with your hand rather than a racquet.' He did not look impressed.

'What games did you like at Prep School,' she asked.

'Cricket, Matron,' he answered.

'Oh, well, that will make it easy to choose in the summer term but, obviously, we don't have cricket this term. What position do you play in cricket?'

'Wicket keeper, Matron.'

'Oh, right, well, you must be really good at catching and have quick reflexes, so Fives might suit you.' Still not impressed. She looked further down the list.

'Cross country? You seem to like running,' she chanced a joke and caught the faintest hint of a wry smile but no further response.

'What about fencing? I could see you being good at that. You have the right build, long arms and legs, quite light on your feet and quick reflexes. I think that could suit you, what do you think?' For the first time, he seemed to show a spark of interest.

'Do you fancy a go at that?' she asked, for confirmation. He actually nodded and almost smiled. She gave him the pencil, attached by a string to the noticeboard and he wrote his name under 'Fencing'.

'Now, you will need a second choice, just in case your first is over-subscribed, though to be honest, I don't think you need to worry about that,' she reassured him. He thought for a moment and then wrote his name under 'Cross Country', as his second choice.

'Well done!' she said. 'I think that deserves some kind of reward. Come with me.' She took him back through the house and up the stairs to her surgery. Once in the room, she went to the fridge and took out a box of chocolate snack bars, which she offered to him.

'You can either have one of these or a lollypop. Which would you rather?' He weighed up the options and took a snack bar from the box, then actually did smile, briefly, and thanked her.

'Now, you can eat that in the house but not outside. Eating in public is not permitted – walking around the streets or the school, I mean - not in a café or Shepherd Churchill, obviously.' He almost smiled again.

'Now, where should you be now?' she asked.

'After break, I have Science, Matron,' he replied.

'OK, well you go and get ready for that, yes? The bell will be going any minute.'

He headed off towards his room to collect his Science things and she sat down at her desk and felt like crying. This little boy was so desperate for love but did not even seem to know how to ask for it.

ooOoo

Sherlock had survived four days sharing with Morris by keeping very much to his own part of the room. Morris was a larger than life character, with a loud voice and a way of filling whatever space he was in. Every break time and in the evenings, before and after Prep, Morris held court in their room, with all his friends piling in and spreading out. They did not, however, encroach too much on Sherlock's space and, so long as he kept his head down and did not bring himself to their attention by moving or speaking, they ignored him. After lights out, Sherlock would curl up in a ball, under his duvet, and pray that Morris would go to sleep quickly. So far, so good. But Sherlock knew, deep down in his soul, that it was only a matter of time before Morris got bored and decided that Sherlock was the best entertainment in town. Unfortunately, on Saturday evening, his instincts were proven correct.

Saturday had been quite a good day. After morning lessons and lunch, Sherlock had turned up for his first fencing session. He did not have any of the special equipment needed but neither did any of the other new boys. The fencing coach got them all kitted out with second hand gear that former pupils had donated to the school, until they were all equipped with a mask, glove, chest protector, underarm protector and jacket. Sherlock felt very at ease in the protective gear. The mask, in particular, he liked because it covered his face. The boys were then told they could remove the masks, for now, as they were going to do some warm up exercises. They spread out in the hall, and then the master took them through a series of movements which not only warmed up the muscles most used in fencing but gave him an idea of which pupils had a natural affinity for the sport. He was quite impressed with a couple of the new boys, Sherlock being one of them. He had a natural grace and balance, he was well co-ordinated and his movements were lithe and fluid. He, alone, of all the boys reproduced the exercise movements exactly as demonstrated. Following the warm-up, the boys were told to put on their masks and were organised into pairs. The master chose Sherlock as his own partner, to demonstrate some basic movements that he wanted the boys to practice, in their pairs, and then he gave them bamboo canes, as substitute foils, with which to rehearse these movements. The format of the exercise was to take it in turns to 'attack' and 'defend'. The attacker was to attempt to touch the padded jacket of their opponent, the defender to 'parry' the attack. During the demonstration, the master was impressed that Sherlock was able to parry his thrusts on a number of occasions. He even asked him if he had fenced before, such was his ability with the 'blade'. At the end of the session, as the boys all handed back their protective clothing, the master spoke to Sherlock,

'I would like you on the school fencing team, Holmes. Are you up for it?'

'I suppose so, sir,' he answered with questionable enthusiasm.

'You will need to buy your own equipment. Is that going to be a problem?' Money had never been a problem in the Holmes household.

'No, sir,' he replied.

'Good. Well, you can order your equipment through the school shop and in the meantime you can keep what you have used today. You will need two foils, if you are to compete, d'you understand?' Sherlock answered in the affirmative.

OK, off you go, Holmes. I look forwards to seeing you again on Tuesday afternoon.'

Sherlock actually felt quite cheerful as he walked back from his fencing session. He would ring Mycroft in the evening and ask him to OK it with the school shop for him to order his fencing gear. Mycroft would be pleased that he had finally found something he was good at. He would be less embarrassing now.

There was no Prep on Saturdays but the boys were expected to spend an hour of Quiet Time between 7.30 and 8.30 in the evening, after which they could watch TV, play pool or take advantage of the other amenities in the house. The garden had a tennis court, volleyball area and space to play football, as well as a croquet lawn. The house had a squash court, too, and a table tennis table, so there were many opportunities to mingle and socialise. Being at the bottom of the pecking order, the Shells had limited access to the more popular activities but on a Saturday, from 8.30 to 9.30, they were given priority over the older house members. This was a considerable concession to modern day sensibilities.

Straight after Quiet Time, Sherlock queued by the phone with his phone card and eventually reached the front of the queue. It took a while for Mycroft to come to the phone but, once he did, it was a formality for him to agree to the ordering of the fencing equipment.

'How are you getting on?' he asked, after the business of the call was done with.

'Alright, I suppose,' Sherlock replied.

'Eating properly?'

'Yes, Mycroft.'

'Good. OK, well, enjoy your evening. Goodbye, old man.' That was quite friendly for Mycroft. After hanging up the phone, Sherlock went up to his room to lie on his bed and read. That was his undoing. Morris and his cronies were in the room and some of them were lounging on Sherlock's bed. On entering the room, he stopped and looked at the boys sprawled across his bed. One of them was wearing the fencing mask on top of his head. Sherlock waited, hoping they would move but this was not to be.

'Oh, look who's here,' said one of the boys – Kendall, Sherlock seemed to remember. 'Didn't see you at Eccer today. Were you jocking?'

'No, Kendall, look, he's got a head basket. He must have been shopping for a new head.' This inane piece of school boy humour seemed to strike a chord with all the other boys, who roared with laughter.

'Well if I had a head like that, I'd want a new one, too,' Kendall guffawed. 'You need a new face, too. The one you've got looks like a girl's. Hey, Morris, you never said you were bunking in with a _girl_.' Their hilarity knew no bounds. Sherlock continued to stand his ground but the boys were now all on their feet and moving towards him, around him, so his escape route was effectively blocked. Morris was not in a good mood. His rugby team had lost and Morris did not like to lose so here was an opportunity for him to feel better about himself by making someone else feel worse.

'Are you a girl, geek?' Morris asked, standing in front of Sherlock, inches from his face, leering at him.

'Girl Geek? Girl Geek? Oh, Morris you just crack me up!' screamed one of their number. They all began baying at that classic witticism.

Sherlock's heart was pounding now. He knew they had him in their power and he was defenceless. He could only wait for this little game of theirs to play itself out. At some invisible signal that Sherlock failed to spot, two of the boys grabbed his arms from behind and two his legs and they carried him into the middle of the room, wriggling and writhing to try and break free. They lowered him, spread-eagled, to the carpet and pinned him to the floor by sitting on his arms and legs. Morris approached, with a gleeful grin on his face.

'Well, if you're a girl, you'll have titties, won't you?' Morris leered. 'Let's see if it's got titties, shall we, chaps?' One of the boys grabbed the hem of his tee shirt and pulled it up to his armpits, exposing his belly and chest.

'Oh. No titties,' wailed Morris, with mock disappointment. The other boys took up the lament then turned it into a gale off laughter.

'But maybe it's got a fanny!' shouted Kendall. Sherlock's blood froze. Debagging was one thing but this was going too far. He began to struggle again but he was so well pinioned, he was at their mercy. He watched, with horror, as Morris went to the waist band of his jeans, pulling at the top button, to unfasten the flies. He redoubled his efforts, concentrating on twisting his hips, trying to roll over. He realised that there was a weak point in the team holding him down, the boy sitting on his right leg. Either he was not very strong or maybe his heart wasn't really in it, but Sherlock felt the pressure on his right leg weaken and he took the opportunity to free that leg, kick the boy sitting on his left leg in the head, and roll his hips over. This took the whole group by surprise and the boys holding his arms loosened their grips, too, allowing Sherlock to roll right over on his front. This was not the best thing to do, under the circumstances, as someone immediately sat heavily on his back, knocking all the air out of him and making it impossible to breathe at all. He flailed his limbs, trying desperately to dislodge the dead weight on his rib cage. He could feel someone pulling his jeans down, over his hips but this was the least of his problems, as he began to lose consciousness through lack of oxygen to the brain.

'WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?' a voice roared above all the racket the boys were making. Instantly, all the boys leaped off Sherlock and stood back, in a guilty circle, looking at the face of an enraged matron.

As the ruck of boys jumped up and moved back, Reba Everett saw the prone body of a boy whom she did not immediately recognise, with his tee-shirt up under his arms and his jeans halfway past his hips, not moving, even though he was no longer held down. She rushed over to him, realising who it was as she approached. Dropping to her knees, she called,

'Sherlock, can you hear me?' No response. She lowered her ear to his mouth to listen for breath sounds but could hear none. Her first aid training kicked into gear. Pointing at the nearest boy, she said,

'Go and find the tutor on duty. Tell him to call an ambulance. RUN!'

She rolled over Sherlock's inert body, tilted his head back and looked at his chest for any signs of breathing. There were none. She then listened to his chest and could hear that his heart was beating. Placing her hand under his jaw to keep his mouth closed, she placed her mouth over his nose and blew a long, slow breath into him. Looking to her right, she saw his chest rise and fall. She repeated the process twice more then she heard him gasp and begin breathing on his own. She immediately turned him over into the recovery position and began to speak to him, telling him who she was, calling his name, asking him if he could hear her and telling him where he was. His eye lids flickered open and he looked at her. She smiled at him, told him to lie still and pulled his tee shirt down. Looking up at the nearest boy, she said,

'Give me his duvet.' The boy jumped to it and dragged Sherlock's duvet off his bed, bringing it over to her. She laid it over him and brushed his hair off his forehead, just as the tutor on duty appeared in the room. He took in the scene and then told all the boys to go down to the tutor's study and wait there for him to return. He then squatted down beside Sherlock and told the matron that the ambulance was on its way. Even as he spoke, the paramedics were led into the room by the duty monitor. They got down to work immediately, checking Sherlock's vital signs, taking in the information provided by Miss Everett, placing an oxygen mask over his face and placing him on a stretcher. Reba went to get her coat and bag, to go with him to the hospital; Sherlock was taken down stairs and out to the ambulance and the ambulance took him and her off to Middlesex hospital A and E.

ooOoo

**A/N: I hope the Harrow terminology is self-explanatory, in context, but, if not, you can look it up on their website and it gives you a list of the most common terms. Cheers!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Usual disclaimers: not my characters (though some are, obviously), just borrowed from ACD, MG and SM, who are all gods, for the sheer joy of writing for them. No profit, just pleasure.**

**Chapter Four**

On the way to the Middlesex, Sherlock lay on the stretcher with his eyes closed, letting everything wash over him. He could hear the adults talking but he wasn't taking in anything that they said. He was aware that he had almost died and this realisation had thrown him into a state of shock. So he just lay, strapped to the trolley, and tried not to exist. He needed to learn to hide better. He needed to hide.

The ambulance pulled up outside A and E and the paramedics took him inside and wheeled him through the department, straight into a treatment cubicle. Reba Everett followed the trolley in and stood back whilst the men transferred him to the hospital bed and changed his oxygen mask for one plugged straight into the hospital supply, then they said goodbye and left. Matron stood next to the bed and took hold of his hand, looking into his face. She was fairly sure he was awake but she was concerned that he was so unresponsive. She tried talking to him.

'Sherlock, I think you can hear me. I am so, so sorry that this has happened. Those boys were so out of order in what they did but they did not realise how dangerous it was. They should not have assaulted you and they will be punished very severely. But they never imagined that they were putting your life in danger. They were just being stupid. And you are safe now. No one is going to hurt you anymore.' She placed her hand on the crown of his head and soothed his temple with her thumb. .

He could hear her voice. The words were meaningless but the sound of her voice was comforting. She had a kind voice and she had been nice to him and her hand on his head felt so calming, he wanted it to stay there for ever. Someone came into the cubicle and spoke to her but she kept her hand on his head and did not let go of his hand either. The other person was talking to him. He did not want to speak to them or open his eyes to look at them either. He didn't want to look at or speak to anyone. Someone attached something to his finger, and then put something round his arm that went tight and then loose again. They kept calling his name and asking him if he could hear them. Of course he _could_ hear them, he just didn't_ want_ to.

The triage nurse, having attached the pulse reader to his finger and taken his blood pressure, turned to Reba.

'Are you Mum?' she asked.

'No, I'm his matron, Miss Everett. He's a pupil at Harrow School.'

'Have his parents been informed about the incident?

'The house master will be contacting the family, right now, to advise them.'

'It's just that, if we have to give him invasive treatment, we may need their permission.'

'The Head Master has _in loco parentis_ powers to sign forms for any invasive treatment.'

'Did he hit his head?'

'I don't know. I didn't witness the whole incident, just discovered it in progress. He did stop breathing but a rather large, heavy boy was sitting on top of him when I came upon them.' Miss Everett was careful just to report the facts as she knew them and not to speculate or to offer any opinions. That was not her role.

'The doctor will be along to examine him shortly. If there is any change in his condition, in the meantime, please press the call button. I'm a bit concerned that he is so unresponsive. I don't think he's unconscious. We may need a psych consult.' The nurse was about to leave when a second staff member came into the cubicle, asking for Miss Everett.

'There is a Mr Wilson on the phone, asking to speak to you,' the lady advised her.

'That's my house master. He may have information about the incident and about the parents,' the matron told them. She turned to the patient and said,

'Sherlock, I need to go and take this phone call. I'll be back very soon.' He felt her hand begin to release his hand so he gripped it tight, so she could not let go. That hand was like a life line. It was the only thing preventing him from slipping into an abyss where a whole legion of Morrises was waiting, all determined to squeeze the life out of him. If she let go of his hand, he was lost. He felt her take her hand from his head and his panic ratcheted up again. He lurched towards her, pulling the oxygen mask off over his head in the process, rolling onto his left side, curling into a foetal position, throwing his free arm around her waist and burying his face in her midriff, shouting 'No!' The three ladies stared at him, stunned into inactivity by this sudden and dramatic response. Reba put her free arm round his shoulders and bent her head to his, saying,

'It's alright, Sherlock. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.' She turned to the second nurse and said,

'Please tell Mr Wilson that I can't come to the phone right now but will ring him as soon as I can. Ask him to give you what information he may have.' The nurse went off to relay this information. The Triage Nurse looked from Sherlock to the matron and said,

'Well, he's definitely not catatonic, anyway. But we may have to sedate him. He seems extremely traumatised.' Miss Everett had to agree with that observation. Retrieving the oxygen mask from the bed, the nurse reached up and turned off the supply tap. There would be no getting it back on and the likelihood was he didn't need it any more. The duty doctor arrived shortly and read Sherlock's notes. Sherlock was still clinging to Miss Everett but had not shown any other responses to his environment. She could feel his chest rising and falling quickly, as he breathed, and his heart beating rapidly, against her hand, on his back. The doctor had noted his rapid heart rate from the bleeping of the pulse monitor.

'It is going to be difficult to do a full examination if he won't co-operate,' he said. 'I don't think we have any choice but to sedate him. We need to put a line in. I'll just get the nurse to do that and I'll write him up for a soporific. Do you know his weight?'

'I'm afraid not. He's not been with us even a week, so we haven't done all the new boys' admissions medicals, yet. It's a rolling programme.' She wasn't sure why she felt the need to apologise. The doctor was giving Sherlock's physique an appraising look, assessing his probable weight. He then made some notes on the chart the nurse had begun.

'OK, I've written him up for something to make him sleep. We will admit him, of course. We can't get a paediatric psych consult until Monday so he will be here until then, at least. When he's more co-operative, we will do a full assessment, to see what, if any, damage was caused by the anoxia.' Miss Everett nodded, acknowledging the doctor's words, and then he left them. She bent her head to Sherlock's and repeated to him what the doctor had said, but in more normal language, then stroked his hair, hoping that he found this comforting.

The second nurse returned to read the doctor's up-date on the notes and carry out his instructions. Miss Everett took the opportunity to ask her if the house master had left a message.

'Only that he is still trying to contact the parents. He would like you to keep him informed about developments.' Fine, she thought, as the nurse left the cubicle. Guess I'm here for the duration, then. The nurse returned quite soon with the paraphernalia to put in a cannula and give Sherlock the sedative.

'I need to put it in the back of his hand,' she told the matron. She tried to release Sherlock's arm from around his matron's waist but he just gripped tighter, resisting her efforts and his pulse, which had settled somewhat, increased again.

'Can you do it there?' asked Miss Everett.

'I suppose I'll have to,' the nurse declared, and pulled the equipment trolley round, behind the matron, to access Sherlock's right hand. Reba Everett explained to him what was about to happen. She had no idea whether he was taking in this information but he seemed to find her voice comforting, as his heart rate steadied as she spoke. He barely reacted when the cannula was inserted in the back of his hand. The nurse then, quickly and efficiently, put up a saline drip and injected the sedative through the line. Miss Everett felt the boy relax, as the medication entered his blood stream and made its way to his brain. Once he was unconscious, the nurse placed him in the recovery position and put up the side of the bed, to prevent him rolling off during the trip to the children's ward, where he would be spending the next couple of days. Not long after, a porter arrived to carry out the transfer.

Once on the ward, Sherlock was wheeled into a side room and two nurses came in to change him into a hospital gown and settle him down for the night. The matron took the opportunity to go to the nurses' desk and use the phone to ring back to house, having cleared that with the nurses.

'Still haven't managed to contact either of the parents,' Mr Wilson explained. 'I did get the brother, though. Father is abroad, somewhere, on some diplomatic mission. He's going to try to reach him through his department. Mrs Holmes is in Cannes, doing some committee work to do with the film, festival, apparently. He will leave a message at the hotel for her to ring us. Once he's done that, he plans to come to the hospital.'

'Well, at least then I'll be able to come back to school and change my clothes at least. Holmes is going to be here until Monday, at the earliest, so they can do a proper assessment, to see if there is any permanent damage. He is completely traumatised, scared out of his wits, literally. What did the other boys have to say for themselves?' she asked.

'Oh, they're pretty traumatised too, actually. I interviewed them all separately and got pretty much the same tale from each. It started out as a bit of name calling then escalated into a ritual humiliation. They pinned him down and tried to strip him but he fought back – kicked Ryland in the head, I've sent him to the San to get patched up but it's nothing too serious. When it looked like he might get away, Morris decided to sit on him, stupid boy. It never occurred to him, apparently, that sitting nine and a half-odd stone on a skinny chap like Holmes might be more than a joke. Damn good job you came along when you did, Reba, or we could have had a fatality.'

'Don't I know it,' she replied. 'I had to resuscitate him!'

'Oh, God, Reba,' he gasped, 'I didn't know that. Oh, my goodness. Well, the Head Man is furious and I expect he'll be even more outraged when he learns that small fact. I've faxed the boys' statements to him and he's going to speak to them tomorrow. He'll need a report from you, too, if you could dash one off, please. In the meantime, he's been in touch with all the parents to tell them there's been a serious incident and asking them to come to school tomorrow. I cannot remember anything like this happening before, not with a group of Shells and definitely not this early in the term. There are going to be some serious repercussion from this, indeed there are.'

'Well, I expect I will be here all night and then, hopefully, the brother will be able to relieve me for an hour or two, at least, tomorrow.'

'Oh, Reba, I am so sorry. I'll call the Relief Matron and ask her to come in in the morning, so she can cover the house. Try to get some sleep, at least.'

'Will do,' she promised and rang off. Back in the hospital room, Sherlock was sleeping soundly, looking small and vulnerable, in the dim lighting from above the bed, his pulse monitor bleeping regularly now. She settled herself into the easy chair, in the corner of the room, and resigned herself to a long, uncomfortable night.

ooOoo

Reba was awoken at six o'clock the next morning, when one of the nurses came into the room with a cup of tea. She accepted it, gratefully, and stood up to walk over to the window, just to stretch her legs. Sherlock was still sleeping soundly and did not appear to have moved all night. A nurse had been in a few times, during the night, to check on him and, at one point, to take down the saline drip, so the matron had had a rather disturbed night. She stood, by the window, sipping her tea then, hearing a noise by the door, turned to see the tall, thin young man, who had brought Sherlock to school on the first day, walking into the room. He stopped when he saw her and gave her an enquiring look, clearly wondering who she was. She walked over to him, putting a finger to her lips and beckoned him to follow her out of the room, which he did. Once outside, she introduced herself and explained that Sherlock had been sedated and why. He introduced himself as Mycroft, Sherlock's brother, so she addressed him by his first name. She asked him if he had managed to speak to his parents.

'My father is on an important diplomatic mission so he can't be contacted at the moment – not directly, at least. I have spoken to my mother and she is catching a plane back from the Cote d'Azure as soon as she can, so should be here later today. I came as soon as I could,' he explained. He seemed anxious, naturally, to go and see his brother, as he kept looking through the door at the sleeping form in the bed, so Reba led him back in and, speaking in a whisper, told him everything that had happened since she came upon the incident. He shook his head, in annoyance, disbelief or concern – it was hard to tell which – at various points, as she described Sherlock's ordeal. When she had finished, he thanked her for her part in the process. She then asked him if he was OK to stay with Sherlock whilst she popped back to school, to sort out a few things and that she would come back as soon as possible. He said that was fine so she collected her bag and coat and he took up her former position, in the easy chair.

She rang for a cab from the nurses' phone and then waited at the Main Entrance for it to arrive. Once back at house, she went first to her surgery and switched on her word processor, to write a report on the incident and everything that had transpired afterwards. This, she faxed to the Head Master and then put a copy, in a sealed envelope, in her House Master's pigeon hole. As she was doing this, the Relief Matron arrived. Reba filled her in on the night's events, passed on some information regarding boys who were on regular medication and referred the other lady to her Day Book, so that she could read up on all the things she needed to know about the boys in the house. Having brought the Relief Matron up to speed, Reba was able, at last, to go to her flat and attend to her own needs.

First and foremost, she needed to get out of the clothes she had been wearing for twenty-four hours. She really would have liked a bath but she did not dare to lie down as she knew she would fall asleep so she took a shower and changed into clean clothes. She then put on a pot of strong coffee and made some toast, dried her hair, switched on the news on Radio Four and also listened to the sounds of the house waking up. It was Matins, today, so the boys would be off to breakfast and then to Chapel and then would have the day pretty much to themselves, apart from regular Callovers, to keep tabs on everyone, and some organised sporting events, for those involved. Some would be going out with parents, perhaps. The Shells would have an organised activity, as part of their induction programme. When she heard the boys go off to Chapel, she went through the house to Sherlock's room, to collect some of his things to take back to the hospital. Looking through his wardrobe and chest of drawers, she was impressed to see how tidy it all was. Most of the boys' storage, by this time, would be completely disorganised – clean and dirty clothes all mixed in together, tuck stuffed into drawers with underwear and a pile of nondescript detritus littering the bottom of the wardrobe. He, however, had stuck to the layout she had devised for him, using it as a template by which to organise his possessions. He was, indeed, a fascinating child.

She selected for him a change of clothes, some pyjamas, his dressing gown and slippers and his toiletries bag, which she packed into his sports bag. She then put in the book from his bedside cabinet and a science magazine she found under his pillow. No cuddly toy, she remembered, so that appeared to be all she needed to take for now. On her way back to her flat, she saw that the House Master was in his study – the boys having gone to chapel with the Assistant HSM today – so she brought him up to date with the information Mycroft had imparted, checked that he had found her report satisfactory, then went up to her flat to collect her coat and bag, to return to the hospital, in her own car.

ooOoo

The sedative having worked its way through his system, during the night, Sherlock awoke from a dreamful, natural sleep and, opening his eyes, was confronted by a strangely substantial remnant of his dream – an image of his brother, Mycroft – sitting in a chair, reading a newspaper. He observed this peculiar phenomenon for a moment or two, then, pushed himself up to side-sitting on his left buttock and rubbed his eyes with his right hand. This was when he noticed the business end of a cannula, protruding from the back of his hand, which was swathed in a bandage, to keep the cannula secure. As he examined this more closely, Mycroft lowered his newspaper and then jumped to his feet. He stepped over to the bed and went down on one knee, placing his hand, on top of the covers, on Sherlock's leg.

'How are you, old man?' he asked, looking intently into his brother's eyes. This overt display of concern, from someone whom Sherlock had heretofore imagined to be a hallucination, came as a bit of a surprise so he just gazed, open-mouthed, back at Mycroft.

'Can you hear me, Sherlock?' he asked.

'Yes, of course I can hear you,' Sherlock replied. 'What are you doing here? And where is here?' he asked, looking round at the unfamiliar room.

'You're in hospital. Your house master rang me last night. I came as soon as I could. Mummy's coming, too. We were very worried about you.' At this point, Mycroft threw his arm around Sherlock's neck and hugged him, making a strange sobbing noise that Sherlock found rather disconcerting, so he sat there, rather stiffly, in the bed, wondering what on earth had come over his normally restrained sibling. Thankfully, Mycroft seemed to recover himself and, releasing his hold on his brother's neck, sat back on the chair.

'Why didn't you tell me what was going on when you rang me yesterday?' he asked.

'Well, nothing was going on, then. They were just ignoring me. But, when I went up, after speaking to you, they all jumped on me. There was nothing I could do about it. It just happened.' While Sherlock was speaking, Mycroft reached over and pressed the nurses' call button, as he had been asked to do, should Sherlock wake up. The nurse appeared at the door a few moments later.

'Good morning, young man,' she greeted Sherlock, with a smile. 'How are you feeling this morning?'

'Very well, thank you,' Sherlock gave the stock polite response.

'Well, at least you are talking now, that's a good sign. Do you need anything?' Sherlock looked a little sheepish then said,

'I do need the toilet, actually.'

'Well, I can't let you go to the toilet, I'm afraid, but I can bring you a bottle or a bed pan, depending on which type of toilet you had in mind,' she answered, chirpily. Sherlock looked even more embarrassed and opted for the bottle. The nurse disappeared and Sherlock gave Mycroft a furtive glance. His brother took the hint and announced that he would go and ring the school, to let them know that Sherlock was awake and talking. As the nurse brought in the bottle, Mycroft left the room. Sherlock looked, speculatively, at the boat-shaped bottle in his hand, then, throwing caution to the wind, relieved himself into it. Then, with the school boy's perennial fascination with anything lavatorial, he held the bottle up to the light from the window and, swishing them around, inspected the contents, with interest. The nurse re-entered the room and stood at his shoulder, inspecting the contents herself. He looked at her and she smiled,

'You can tell an awful lot about a person from their pee, you know. For example, I can see from the colour of this that you are a bit dehydrated so I'll bring you a jug of water and you need to drink as much as possible, OK?' He nodded.

'We'll send some of this off to be tested, if that's alright with you.' She took the bottle from him, covered it with a cloth and took it away. Sherlock climbed back into the bed and sat looking around and wondering what was going to happen next. He inspected the cannula and tried to remember when it had been put into his hand. His memory of everything after entering his room and being jumped by the other boys was really fuzzy. The one thing he could remember was the feeling of utter relief when he opened his eyes and saw the matron's face. He had known then that he was safe. As he was remembering this, his brother returned to his room, accompanied by Miss Everett, carrying his sports kit bag. She smiled at him and plonked the bag on the bed.

'I hope I've brought the right things for you. I thought you would prefer to wear your own PJ's and I've brought you some clothes for when you are discharged. I also brought your book and magazine. Hope that is OK for you.' He looked at her with genuine surprise and nodded, amazed at the care and consideration she had shown on his behalf. He was so unaccustomed to that. He opened the bag to have a look inside and was checking what she had brought in the way of clothes when there was a small disturbance out in the corridor and Sherlock's mother swept into the room.

'Sherlock! Darling! What have they done to you, those beastly boys' she shrieked and threw her arms around him. He cringed but did not resist or pull away – but neither did he return her embrace. She seemed oblivious to that fact. She looked around the room, spotted Mycroft and threw herself at him too.

'I came as soon as I could, darling boy. How have you been coping here?' she gushed.

'Fine, Mummy, everything is fine. Sherlock has been well looked after,' he answered, looking distinctly embarrassed. Her eye fell on Reba.

'And who are you?' she asked, looking down on the more petite form of the matron. Reba had met ladies like Mrs Holmes before and was unfazed by this lady. She offered her hand, smiling.

'My name is Miss Everett. I'm Sherlock's matron. We met at the barbeque in the summer?' Mrs Holmes took her hand in a limp and very brief clasp, saying,

'Oh, did we? I really don't remember, sorry,' and she smiled, ingratiatingly, then turned away, summarily dismissing her.

'Right, Sherlock, darling, we need to get you moved to a better hospital. I have already spoken to Sir James and he suggests we take you to King Edward's.' Sherlock looked at the matron and she thought she detected a minute shake of his head. She took it that he was asking her to intervene.

'Actually, Mrs Holmes, Sherlock was admitted following a severe trauma. The doctors have not yet been able to assess the degree, if any, of damage caused by that trauma and the hospital is unlikely to discharge him before that assessment has been carried out.'

'What? What do you mean? Are you telling me that I can't take my son to another hospital?' Mrs Holmes was flabbergasted.

'Not exactly, Mrs Holmes. I think the doctors here would think it unwise to move your son until they have assessed his condition. If anything should happen during the transfer, they could not be held responsible,' Reba explained. Mrs Holmes was not accustomed to being denied but she could see that Reba had made an unassailable point. She was briefly bewildered but rallied quickly.

'Let me speak to someone in charge,' she announced and stalked out of the room, barging past the nurse who was returning with a jug of fresh water and a plastic tumbler for Sherlock. The nurse turned to glare at the retreating back of Mrs Holmes, then turned back into the room, with a smile for all its occupants, and poured a generous drink for Sherlock and placed the tumbler into his hand and the jug on the bedside cabinet, before exiting the room once more. Sherlock took a large swig of water and gave Reba a grateful half-smile, for intervening with his mother, and went back to rooting through his bag.

Reba looked at her watch, and addressed the two brothers.

'Look, guys, I really need to get back to house, now that your mum is here to take care of things. The Head Master is deciding on the fate of the miscreants this morning so I really need to be there to help implement whatever he decides.' Sherlock looked a little alarmed but Mycroft held out his hand to Reba and thanked her for all her care and attention. He said he would give her regards to his mother, for which she thanked him, and then departed.

ooOoo

**A/N: I hope the Harrow terminology is self-explanatory, in context, but, if not, you can look it up on their website and it gives you a list of the most common terms. Cheers!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Five**

Driving back to Harrow on the Hill, Reba had to wind her window down, to keep cool air blowing in her face. She was so tired, having been up and about for nearly thirty hours, it was with great relief that she turned into her parking space at the house and switched off her car engine. On entering the house, she was greeted by the Relief Matron and the House Master, both looking stressed. They all went into Mr Wilson's study and took seats, so that he could relate what he had to say.

'OK,' he began, ruffling his hair with the fingers of both hands. 'Morris and Kendall have been rusticated for one week.' Rustication meant being sent home. This was the worst punishment one could receive at Harrow. It carried with it such a stigma of shame that even the most senior boys would break down in tears at the prospect and beg for the punishment to be commuted to anything rather than rustication.

'The other boys will all be uniform gated for a week. The Head Master will be giving a stern warning in Speech Room tomorrow about bullying and the severe consequences for anyone who may fancy giving it a try. Also, House staff will be meeting this week to make plans for a more comprehensive Shell Induction programme which will ensure that the boys are kept under closer supervision for the first two weeks of the new school year in future. Monitors and Shepherds will be given more involvement in the new boys' lives, to increase eyes and ears on the ground. We were very lucky not to have a fatality here. It makes my blood run cold to think what might have been had you not come along when you did, Reba. Thank God you were on the ball.'

Reba accepted her boss's praise in her usual self-deprecating manner.

'How have the boys and their parents taken the news?' she asked. The boys were all in her care, the sinned against and the sinners and she knew that all the boys had been traumatised by the incident. The ones that were being sent home would be given a very rough time by their parents. They certainly would not see it as a week's holiday. They would be sent home with work to do and would be expected to complete it all before returning. The ones staying in school would be required to wear uniform all their waking hours – except during Eccer, when, obviously, they would wear Games kit, and they would have to report at fixed intervals to a member of staff or a Monitor to have their Gating form signed. This meant that they were pretty much house-bound for the duration of the Gating period, outside of school time.

'The boys are suitably remorseful and the parents range from mortified with embarrassment to downright pissed off at the inconvenience,' George Wilson explained, 'But they know the rules when they sign the agreement so they are all on board. Morris and Kendall are packing a bag even as we speak. They will be out of here within the hour.' He stood up and rubbed his hands together, drawing a metaphorical line under the conversation.

'Now, Reba, you must go to bed and catch up with your sleep. Margaret will be fine taking care of the boys, won't you Margaret?' The Relief Matron agreed. So, having brought the HSM up to speed with regard to Sherlock and his mother, she took herself, gratefully off to her flat and to bed.

ooOoo

Mrs Holmes' Mission to find 'someone in charge' took her as far as the duty doctor. He listened patiently to her demands then calmly agreed to discharge Sherlock into her care on the understanding that she signed a self-discharge form, which absolved the hospital of all responsibility for any adverse repercussions that may occur. He was fairly sure that Sherlock was low risk for any such eventualities and he had a whole department full of other patients who needed his ministrations. The nursing staff were instructed to fax copies of Sherlock's case notes to Sir James Copeland, their family doctor, who had arranged to meet them at the private hospital and review Sherlock's treatment there. Returning to the side room she instructed Sherlock to change into his home clothes and prepare to leave. She sent Mycroft out to the chauffeur, to instruct him to bring the car up to the Main Entrance, then she made a grand exit from the Children's Ward, with Sherlock trailing behind, carrying his own bag. The nurses smiled sympathetically at him and he smiled, ruefully back at them, as he departed.

At the private hospital, he was whisked off in a wheelchair to a plush room with en suite bathroom, a telephone extension, a television, a menu card and room service. His mother got straight on the phone, ringing her fellow committee members in Cannes, to see if anything had happened in her absence that she should know about. Sherlock changed into his pyjamas and, getting into bed, read his book. Mycroft was let off the hook and, having said 'goodbye' to his brother and kissed his mother on both cheeks, was taken home in the family car. Sir James arrived and read Sherlock's case notes and ordered an immediate full work up – blood tests, liver and kidney function, ECG and EEG - the whole nine yards. He also ordered a psychiatric assessment. Sherlock was powerless to resist. After two days of intrusive medical investigation, he was declared fit and well, with no lasting ill-effects from his ordeal, and discharged from the clinic. His mother took him back to school.

Reba saw the car pull up outside the house and went to the front door to greet him. It was mid-morning and the house was empty except for the ladies, attending to the domestic duties and Reba herself. The boys were in lessons and Mr Wilson was teaching. Mrs Holmes was not pleased that the house master was not available to speak to her, although Reba did explain that he would be back in house at morning break time – eleven o'clock. She declared that she was unable to wait, as she had a plane to catch, hugged and kissed Sherlock and was whisked away, in the Rolls Royce. As the dust settled, Reba turned to Sherlock and beckoned for him to follow her up to her surgery. Once inside, she invited him to sit on the arm chair, whilst she sat in her desk chair. She asked him how he was feeling and noted that she should advise the school doctor to contact the private hospital to obtain his case notes. Then she got down to the real purpose of the meeting.

'Sherlock, how do you feel about coming back into the house?' she asked. He looked at her, then at the floor, then at the window and then back to her face but gave no verbal response.

'Are you concerned about coming back?' she rephrased the question. He bit his bottom lip and looked to the side but still did not answer. She reached out and took his hand. He looked at her hand holding his, then, looking at her, rather apologetically, gently withdrew his hand. That moment, at the hospital, had clearly been situation specific.

'I don't feel safe here,' he admitted.

'Sherlock, you are safe in this house. We made a mistake. We didn't know any better then but now we do. We should have supervised you much more closely, we should have realised that you and Morris were not getting on. All this could have been avoided had we done our job better. But we know now that we need to do things differently. And that is what we will do.' By his facial expression, she deduced that he was unconvinced.

'Morris and Kendall have been rusticated. Do you know what that means?' she asked.

'Yes,' he replied. 'It means they've been sent home.'

'Yes, for a week. So for a week, you will have your room to yourself, OK?'

He nodded.

'The other boys involved have all been gated, for a week. And all the staff have been given new directives with regard to pupil supervision. Shells are to be supervised at all times for the next two weeks, either by staff or Monitors. And your shepherds will be spending time with you during the evenings as well as during the day. And there will be organised activities for Shells after Prep every night and after Quiet Time on Saturdays, until Half Term.' Sherlock was considering this information but made no comment.

'But if, at any time, you feel at risk or worried about anything, I want you to promise me that you will tell me or Mr Wilson or a Tutor or a Monitor. Will you promise me that?' she asked. He gave a small nod but she was not entirely convinced that would act on this advice. He seemed rather distrustful of authority.

'OK, enough of the Spanish Inquisition for one day. Let me take you up to your room.' She stood and hefted his bag then invited him to precede her through the house, to his bedroom. On arrival, she opened the door and stepped inside, turning to encourage him to enter. He paused in the doorway, remembering the last time he had stood in this doorway. He could hear his own heartbeat hammering in his ears and his chest felt very tight but he forced himself to step through the door. Logic told him that there was no danger here, now. He knew that his body was reacting to subconscious stimuli, triggering the Fight or Flight Response. He walked into the room and over to his bed, placing his kit bag on the floor. Looking around, he thought, this room can be my sanctuary, for now at least. Sitting down on the bed, he smoothed his hands on the duvet cover and nodded, to himself. Watching him, Reba had read his internal monologue and was impressed. He had faced down his demons and had won the battle through logic. Here was a very rational being. Yet again, she thought, what a fascinating child.

Confidant that he was sufficiently recovered from the ordeal, she advised him to change into his school uniform and return to lessons after morning break. He was more than happy with that idea. Having a very low threshold for boredom, he hated inactivity. However, returning to her surgery, Reba's main concern where Sherlock was concerned was his reticence to communicate with adults. Thinking back over all the contacts she had had with him, he had barely strung two words together. She wondered if he was the same in all environments. What was he like at home? She needed to speak to his family and felt that the person most likely to give her an accurate account was his brother. Mum seemed singularly oblivious to her children's opinions and Dad was a unknown quantity. She was fairly sure that he had never visited the school, either during the selection process or since. This was unusual, since fathers of boys were normally heavily involved in their choice of school. But she understood that he was something very important in the Diplomatic Corps so he was perhaps too preoccupied with serious international issues to concern himself with mere domestic matters. She would also speak to the matron from his prep school about the matter. Seizing the moment, she looked up the number in her file of pupils' contact details, and rang the Holmes' Hertfordshire home. The call was answered by a man, who announced this was 'the Holmes' residence'. She asked to speak to Mycroft and was told that Master Mycroft was not at home at the moment but she could leave a message. She asked for him to ring her at his convenience and gave her name and number.

Next, she rang her counterpart at Sherlock's prep school. This call proved far more fruitful. The other matron, once Reba identified herself, was more than happy to discuss her former charge.

'He is a very bright boy, academically, and also quite gifted, musically, but he is socially awkward. He did not make many friends here and seemed to rub some of the less bright boys up the wrong way by his attitude toward them. He does not suffer fools gladly and, in lessons, if one of the boys were to answer a question incorrectly, he would raise his eyebrows and sigh or give some other sign of disapproval or impatience which, naturally, did not go down well with the less able boys. He did have two quite close friends, here, both similarly gauche and rather bright. They tended to keep themselves to themselves.' Reba asked her about his dealings with staff and how communicative he was.

'He was always very polite but diffident. He seemed rather suspicious of adults, to distrust their motives. I assume you've met Mum?'

Reba confirmed that she had.

'Yes, well, she can be quite overpowering and never seems to listen to her children's opinion – we had Mycroft here, of course. But, having said that, it was her decision to send Sherlock to Harrow rather than Eton because she thought it would suit his temperament better so she does have some awareness of their sensibilities. She is a very busy lady, involved in all kinds of charity work and committees of one kind and another – a real socialite, the archetypal diplomat's wife. That is the world they come from, those boys. However, getting back to Sherlock, he can be rather monosyllabic but, if you get him on a subject that he is passionate about, he can talk for England. He was very active in the Debating Society. In fact, in his final year here, he could have been captain of the debating team but he turned it down. This school was top of the Debating league for three years running and it was mostly down to Sherlock.'

'Why do you think he turned it down, the captaincy?' Reba asked.

'Well, Mycroft had been captain in his time here and been very successful. Mrs Holmes was always comparing Sherlock to Mycroft. I think she thought it would inspire him but it had the opposite effect. Sherlock always felt he had to try to live up to Mycroft's achievements. I think he turned the role of captain down in case he didn't do as well as Mycroft had. He tended to avoid the things that his brother was good at, apart from the debating. I don't think he could resist the temptation of a good argument.'

Reba recalled something the lady had mentioned earlier.

'You said he was gifted, musically. In what way, exactly?' she asked.

'Haven't you heard him play the violin?' Reba had to admit she had not.

'He hasn't registered for lessons and he does not have a violin with him,' she informed the lady.

'Oh, my goodness! He plays the violin beautifully. He passed Grade Seven with Distinction earlier this year. He loves the violin. I really can't imagine why he would decide to give it up.'

Reba thanked the lady, profusely, for her help and hung up, quite intrigued by the picture she had painted of the boy. She would share this information with her House Master, as it cast a whole new light on this enigmatic child.

ooOoo

**A/N: Please review! If you like my story, please tell me why; if you don't, please tell me (nicely) why not. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Rated T for bullying and bad language.**

**Chapter Six**

When Sherlock left his room to go to his first lesson, he was surprised by the response of the other boys to his appearance back in the house. Boys whom he had never seen before came over to him, asked how he was and told him they were glad to have him back. He found this sudden display of camaraderie quite baffling. He really just wanted to be left alone. Why did no one understand this? By the end of the last lesson of the day, he could not wait to go to fencing. He had been looking forward to it all day. He collected his borrowed fencing gear from his room and lugged them over to the practice hall. He was first to arrive and had to wait outside for the master to turn up. He had obviously heard about the incident on Saturday night, too.

'Holmes, dear boy, how are you?' he gushed. 'Do come in. You can help me get set up.' On entering the hall, Sherlock saw what he meant. Someone had clearly been running an exercise class here and the equipment was still sitting in the middle of the hall. It all needed to be stored in a large store room at the back of the room. The fencing coach showed Sherlock how to move the equipment on its castors and wheel it into the store room. Once he got the hang of that, it was all stowed away in no time. The other pupils arrived, all gawping at Sherlock – did the whole school know who he was now? – but, thankfully, the session got under way, with the warm-up exercises, and they quickly seemed to forget that he was a celebrity.

ooOoo

Reba had just returned to her surgery, having done a tour of the house to check that all the boys had left for Eccer – known as the 'jockers' round' - when the phone rang. It was Mycroft Holmes, returning her call.

'Is Sherlock alright?' was his first question. She assured him that his brother was fine and apologised for alarming him.

'I have a couple of queries which I was hoping you could help me with,' she began.

'I will if I can,' he replied.

'I've been speaking with Sherlock's prep school matron and she has told me some things that have surprised me.'

'Really?' replied Mycroft. 'I am intrigued.' She went on.

'I understand your brother is quite a gifted musician but he hasn't brought his violin to school. I was wondering why.'

'Have you asked him?' Mycroft asked, sounding cautious, now.

'No. I rather wanted to ask you first,' she explained. There was quite a long pause on the other end of the phone but at last Mycroft spoke.

'My father felt it might detract from his academic work if he continued to play the violin. He didn't want him to spread himself too thin. He thought the violin would be too much of a distraction.' She could tell by the tone of his voice that he did not agree with his father's opinion but he would not be so disloyal as to voice this.

'How did Sherlock feel about this?' she enquired.

'He was rather upset. He told our father that, far from it being a distraction, it actually helped him to concentrate, helped him to think. But Father was adamant. I do believe it was one reason why Sherlock was so reluctant to come to school that first day of term. He had never gone anywhere without his violin for years. He even used to take it on holiday with him.' Reba was dumbfounded. She didn't think she had ever heard anything so ridiculous in her life. How could the man be so heartless as to separate the child from something so dear to him at such a crucial stage in his life – starting a new school? It certainly explained a number of things. Reba realised she had not spoken for a while.

'Thank you very much, Mycroft. You've been extremely helpful,' she exclaimed.

'Might I ask you something, Miss Everett?'

'Of course,' she replied.

'I'll be going back up to Cambridge in a couple of weeks and I would like to take my brother out to supper before I leave. Would that be possible?' he asked.

'Pupils are allowed to go out to supper with family members on Saturday evenings but, in order to give permission, the House Master will need a request in writing from your parents or Sherlock's UK guardian, at least a week in advance of the proposed date,' she explained.

'Well, I suppose I am his UK guardian but I will ask my mother to write. Thank you, Miss Everett.' He said goodbye and rang off. Reba was still fuming. She had to speak to her boss about all the things she had learned today. She just hoped he could do something for this poor misunderstood boy in order to reunite him with his beloved violin.

It was not until after Call Over, when the boys had all gone off to Prep, that she was able to speak with her boss. She tapped at the House Master's study door and he invited her in. She related to him everything she had learned that day. George Wilson sat back in his chair, considering what she had told him.

'Well, I have to say, I did know about the Debating Society and the violin. That information was included in the file I received from his prep school but, when I met him, I must say I questioned its veracity. The boy on paper and the boy made flesh seem to be two very different boys. He is so withdrawn, so taciturn. It is hard to imagine him standing up and orating and, when he came without the violin, I just assumed he had decided to give it a break.' He paused to consider some more then drew a breath, decision made.

'The Debating is not a problem. We can point him in that direction. If he is as good as his press clippings suggest, the house will really warm to him. It could give him quite a bit of status. As for the violin, I cannot go against the express wishes of his father. However, I can write to the man and try to change his mind. That's all I can promise.' Reba could see the reality in that. Sometimes one just had to draw a line and move on.

ooOoo

Sherlock was enjoying having a room to himself. He did not spread out and encroach on his erstwhile room-mate's space; he just revelled in the solitude and the peace and quiet. He knew it was to be short-lived but he just made the most of it while it lasted. Sunday arrived all too soon. Sherlock had been in his room nearly all day, apart from Call Over, Chapel and going to meals, enjoying the privacy and peace that it afforded in the hurly-burly of the house and its seventy juvenile occupants. He had been reading a book, or at least trying to. What he really wanted to be doing was playing his violin. Oh, how he missed his violin! There were other boys in the house who played – if you could call it that. They scraped away, at any rate. He was fairly sure that, any one of them, had he asked, would have let him borrow their instrument. But there was no way he could do that. His violin was special, to him. He loved it in a way he loved nothing and no one else. He loved the weight of it, in his hand, the way it vibrated between his jaw and collar bone; he knew it intimately – the curve of the body, the tension on the strings, the patina of the finger board, the way the keys squeaked when he adjusted the tuning. He knew the balance point of the bow, how by a mere tilt of his wrist, he could make the note soft or strident. He loved to stand and play in the window of his room, at home, on sunny days, when the sun would illuminate the motes of rosin that rose like dust, as he drew the bow across the strings, how they glittered in the sunlight. Then there was the tone, the multiple harmonics contained in every note, that combined to produce a clarity of pitch that delighted his ear and swelled his heart. He had to stop thinking about his violin. It was too painful. He went to wipe his nose on his cuff, then remembered Mycroft's admonishment and fished his brother's handkerchief out of a drawer, wiped his eyes and blew his nose. This was just in time, as it happened, because a sharp knock on his door heralded the arrival of Absalom, his Shepherd.

This was the last day of Shepherding. After today, the Shells were deemed to have completed their induction to the school. This evening, they would all be tested on the rules and on the traditional terms, for everyday things, used at Harrow, and then their period of Grace would be over. They would then be considered responsible for any infringements and would be punished, accordingly. Frankly, Absalom was rather glad he would not have to Shepherd Holmes any more. The boy was impossible. He didn't want to do anything but sit in his room. He didn't want to join in anything. Absalom's own former Shepherd, now a 5th Year, was one of his closest friends in the house. They got on like a house on fire and Absalom really looked up to him, like an older brother. He had hoped to forge a similar relationship with Holmes, but the guy was just not interested.

'Holmes, I've been asked to tell you that Mr Wilson wants you in his study in half an hour, OK?' Sherlock looked at the other boy and nodded his head. Absalom turned to leave and then turned back.

'You know, Holmes, if you are going to get anything out of being at a school like Harrow, you really will have to start joining in. The whole point of coming to a place like this is to make friends that will last a lifetime and to take advantage of all the extra-curricular activities on offer. If you don't do that, you may as well not be here.' Sherlock looked at the other boy for a moment and then spoke.

'I didn't come here to make friends, Absalom, I came here to get an education and if I don't have friends or get involved in any extra-curricular activities then I am likely to have more time to study, which would mean that I get more out of being here, don't you think? And, truth be told, Absalom, I'd much rather not be here anyway, but I don't have any control over that.'

The Shepherd stared at him, momentarily struck dumb by the insolence of the little prat, but not for long.

'What an arrogant prick you are, Holmes. I'm not surprised Morris tried to kill you. Frankly, I could kill you myself.'

Still reclining on his bed, book in hand, Sherlock looked down his perfect retroussé nose at the other boy.

'Really, Absalom? How terribly ambitious of you.' Absalom clenched his fists and fought an almost irresistible urge to punch the little dick head.

'Fuck you, Holmes,' he said, instead, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. With a bit of luck, he would never have to even look at, let alone speak to, the little git ever again.

ooOoo

At the appointed time, Sherlock presented himself at the house master's study. He knocked on the door and waited. He could hear voices inside but could not hear what they were saying. Presently, the door was opened and Mr Wilson invited him into the room. Stepping through the door, he was brought up short when he saw Morris sitting there, on the HSM's sofa, next to a larger, older version of himself. Both Morrises, major and minor, turned to stare at him, as he entered the room. The only other person in the room, apart from himself and Mr Wilson, was Miss Everett, the matron. Sherlock walked forward and stood on the Indian rug, feeling exposed and vulnerable. The house master kicked things off.

'Holmes, I've asked you here because Morris has something to say to you, don't you, Morris?' Morris stood up, nodding and muttering,

'Yes, sir.' He walked towards Sherlock, looking every inch the Prop Forward, and held out his hand. Despite his better judgement, Sherlock felt obliged to take the hand.

'I am really sorry for what I did, Holmes. I will never do anything like it again,' Morris mumbled, giving Sherlock's hand a sharp shake, which felt anything but apologetic.

'What do you say to that, Holmes?' Mr Wilson asked, beaming at both boys.

'Er, fine, I suppose, sir,' Sherlock replied.

'Good!' exclaimed the house master, rubbing his hands in satisfaction. 'Very good! Now, I think you boys can run along. I expect you will both be doing some cramming for your test this evening.' He opened the door and ushered the two boys out. Morris turned and smiled, half-heartedly, at his father, Brigadier-General Morris of the International Security Assistance Forces in the Middle East, and followed Sherlock through the house and back to their room. Sherlock felt the other boy's gaze boring into his back, all the way up the stairs so he was not at all surprised when, once inside the security of the room, Morris placed a large hand on his shoulder and spun him around. Gripping him by his tee-shirt front, Morris leaned into him and hissed, though gritted teeth,

'You don't fool me, Holmes, you little shit. I know what you did, holding your breath like that, pretending to be half dead, just to get me and Kendall in Skew. Well, you better watch your back, 'cos next time, you won't need to pretend.' With that, Morris pushed him hard and he staggered across the floor, crashing into his desk and upsetting all the books on the bookshelves above, causing them to fall onto his desk top and to the floor. Sherlock rubbed his arm, where it had made contact with the desk, then set about returning all his books and files to their assigned position, in his book case, and counting the days to his first exeat. Maybe he could develop some terrible illness, which made it impossible for him to return to Harrow, ever.

ooOoo

**Sorry this has been awhile coming but Demon was taking up all my brain space so this one had to go on the cerebral back burner. But I'm back now! To those of you who have 'followed' or 'favourited', many thanks, and for those who have reviewed, extra thanks. Your words of encouragement are much appreciated.**

**Even more thanks, to all my readers, for your patience!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Seven**

After the Brigadier-General left, George Wilson rubbed his hands together, feeling rather pleased with himself.

'I thought that went rather well, don't you, Reba?' he declared. Reba was not so sure.

'I'm sorry, George, but I already gave you my opinion. I think we should have split them up, moved Morris to another room and put another boy in with Holmes. I don't think we've heard the last of this,' Reba replied.

'But it would be unfair to the boys in the other room that we had to split up, when they have just started to get to know one another. And I think Morris learned a valuable lesson here. I don't believe he will be so eager to throw his weight about in the future,' the house master maintained.

'Morris does not like to lose and I think he will blame Holmes for his rustication and will be out for revenge,' Reba countered.

'Well, I'm afraid we must agree to disagree. I have great faith in these boys. We need to show them that we trust them.'

Her boss turned back to his desk and Reba considered herself dismissed. She left the room and returned to her surgery. Inwardly, she was fuming. She had told the Holmes boy that the house staff had learned their lesson. Well, clearly, they had not. Leaving Holmes within easy striking distance of Morris, she felt, was quite irresponsible. But the housemaster's word, within the house, was law. She could voice her concerns but the final decision rested with her boss. She resolved to keep a very close eye on Morris and Holmes.

ooOoo

Later that evening, the Shells all gathered in the Private Side Hall, to take their test on Harrow Rules and Terminology. Sherlock found it ridiculously easy. It was simply a case of regurgitating facts. Some of the boys had not taken the trouble to learn those facts, though, and would be required to take the test again the next day. Morris was one of these. Despite being at home for a week, he had not taken his Bill Book with him so had not been able to do his revision. After the test, the boys were treated to a video and a little party. Sherlock stayed on the periphery of the group, watched the video disinterestedly – he had seen it before – and ate some pizza but with little relish. He was preoccupied by the dilemma that Lights Out presented, concerned that Morris, having flunked his test, would be looking for a little solace. He'd been considering his options ever since Morris had made his threat, earlier in the day, and the only one he could come up with was to not sleep – at all. He knew, from experience, that he could manage a couple of nights without sleep but, after that, he was in trouble. But then he had another thought. Maybe he could sleep somewhere else? That was a possibility. He could stay awake until everyone else in the house was asleep and then sneak out with his duvet and pillow into the Stuart Library and sleep there. This seemed like a much better plan. He would have to set his watch alarm, to make sure he was back in his room before anyone else was up but that was not a problem. He resolved to do just that.

ooOoo

The next week went by without incident. Morris confined himself to glaring at Sherlock, whenever their paths crossed and Sherlock just kept his head down and implemented his night time plan. He waited until after midnight, each night, then bundled up his duvet and pillow, padded through the dark and silent house to the library, folded his duvet in half and laid it on the wooden floor, under the library table, then crawled in between the two halves, so that he had duvet under him as well as over, to provide a bit of padding for the floor. The library chairs, around the table, would hide him from view, should anyone happen to come in – which was fairly unlikely but, nevertheless, needed to be considered.

On Friday evening, at pre-prep Call Over, Mr Wilson read out the names of boys whose family would be visiting at the weekend, taking them to supper on Saturday evening, and so on. Sherlock was extremely surprised to hear his name called. Reba, who had been watching him, in the meeting, noting particularly the faraway, 'otherwise engaged' look in his eyes, saw him start when his name was read out and then look puzzled. At the end of the house meeting, he joined the line of boys in Queue, outside the HSM's study, for various reasons- from withdrawing money (for the weekend), to reporting Send Ups (pieces of exceptionally good work) and Skews (punishments), amongst other matters. The matron thought she knew why he was there.

'Everything alright, Sherlock?' she asked, as she walked by.

'Yes, Matron, I just think there's been a mistake,' he replied.

'What kind of mistake?' she queried.

'Mr Wilson said I was going out to supper tomorrow,' he explained.

'Yes, you are. Your brother is coming to see you before he goes back up to Cambridge,' she told him. He looked very surprised but thanked her for the explanation and went off to Prep. Reba watched him walk away and thought he looked a bit drawn. His skin was pale anyway but he had dark circles under his eyes which made his face look even paler. Although the week had passed without incident, she was still not happy with the sleeping arrangements for Holmes and Morris. She suspected that Morris would keep a low profile until he thought things had been forgotten, and then start his reign of terror all over again. She was extra concerned that the lack of decisive action on this occasion would give Holmes less confidence to seek help when the next incident occurred. She liked her boss but sometimes she was astounded by his tunnel vision where some boys were concerned. He insisted on seeing good in everyone, even those who had a wicked streak running right through them.

She had noted that Holmes was seen much more in the communal parts of the house then previously but was still solitary, most of the time. The other boys did not even seem to notice him, any more. He was very good at being invisible. She was surprised that the others didn't sit on him sometimes, not seeing him on the bench or sofa. He was always reading – his daily newspaper, books, science magazines. She noticed he favoured books about criminology. Perhaps he intended to be a barrister, when he grew up. If he was good at debating, that would be a good choice of career. Another boy approached her and required her attention, so she stopped musing and got down to business.

ooOoo

Sherlock got back from his fencing lesson at around five o'clock on Saturday evening, with his newly purchased fencing gear in his sports kit bag. The foils had been locked in the cupboard in the games hall, for safe keeping and to avoid unfortunate accidents but the rest fitted quite well in the bag, which he plonked in its assigned place – on top of his wardrobe. He then stripped off, put on his dressing gown and, taking his towel and toiletries bag, went down to the wash-room to have a good shower, in preparation for his trip out for supper with Mycroft. He was still mystified as to why his brother had suddenly decided to come and see him but an evening out of house was a welcome diversion so he was not complaining. The rugby teams were not back in house yet, so he was able to get straight into a shower and was back in his room before Morris returned, loud and sweaty and covered in mud. Sherlock turned his back on his room-mate and got on with getting ready. Morris got undressed, dropping his muddy kit in a heap on the floor, wrapping a towel around his waist and heading back to the showers.

Mycroft was due to arrive at six o'clock, and, being Mycroft, he was dead in time. He appeared in the doorway of Sherlock's room on the dot of six. Sherlock was lying on his bed, reading, as usual, and looked up to see his brother standing there, holding something out to him, at arm's length.

'I thought you might like to have this,' Mycroft said. Sherlock was astounded. He could not believe his eyes as he looked at the violin case being held out to him by his brother. He sat up on the bed, still staring from the case to his brother's face and back to the case.

'Well, do you want it or not?' Mycroft asked, a little brusquely but with a half-smile, to take the edge off his tone. Sherlock burst into tears and threw himself across the room, hugging his brother round his waist with one arm and hugging his violin with the other. Mycroft patted him on the back until he got over his emotional outburst and stood back, looking a bit embarrassed.

'Where's that hankie I gave you?' Mycroft asked. Sherlock fished it out from under his pillow and blew his nose, still clutching the violin case to his chest, still unable to speak for fear of breaking down again.

'I hope you were not thinking of bringing that with you to supper. I'm not sure the restaurant would approve,' Mycroft joked. Sherlock shook his head, looked around the room, then opened the sliding wooden door in the base of his bed and pushed the violin case as far to the back as he could reach. He did not want Morris or anyone else finding his precious violin while he was not here to protect it. Then he put on his jacket and walked with his brother to the front door where he 'signed out' in the book, as it would be Locking Up before he was back from supper, so he needed to be accounted for.

Mycroft had booked a table for six thirty, at the Old Etonian Restaurant in the High Street, which he thought appropriate, being an Old Etonian, himself, so they were in good time. Once seated, Mycroft ordered a chicken dish for himself and a half carafe of Chablis. Sherlock ordered Mussels in white wine sauce and a jug of water. They both ordered pate and wholemeal toast for starters. Mycroft allowed Sherlock a small amount of Chablis, topped up with water, which was normal when dining at home, in the evenings. While they waited for their first course, Sherlock thanked his brother profusely for bringing his violin.

'How did you persuade Father to let you bring it?' he asked.

'I didn't', replied Mycroft. 'He doesn't know.' Sherlock's face registered shock. Mycroft had gone against their father's wishes, on his behalf.

'But, Mycroft, won't you get into trouble, when he finds out?' Sherlock gasped.

'Most likely, yes, but what's the worst he can do? He can't exactly ground me, can he?' Sherlock agreed but he still appreciated what a big thing this had been for Mycroft to defy his father for his benefit.

'Any way, he may not even find out, if you keep quiet about it. Just don't make a big fuss. No busking in Harrow railway station, OK?' Mycroft warned him.

'He won't hear it from me, Mycroft, I promise,' Sherlock said, earnestly. The brothers then spent the rest of the evening eating and talking about whatever came up. Sherlock talked about his fencing lessons and about a very gruesome murder he had read about in the newspaper and Mycroft talked about what he planned to do in his third year at Cambridge. Sherlock could not remember the last time he and his brother had actually had a conversation. In fact, he couldn't remember ever having a conversation with Mycroft. It felt awkward but also rather nice. He thought he would like to do it again, some time. All too soon, the meal was over and it was time to return to school. Mycroft walked Sherlock back to The Park, went inside with him to tell the duty tutor that he was back and then turned to him.

'I won't see you until Christmas, now. Do you have enough money?' Sherlock assured him he did, since he had not spent any of his pocket money, yet.

''OK, well, goodbye, old man, and, if you have any more trouble with that Morris chap, I hope you will tell someone. You have my phone number, don't you?'

'Yes, I do. Thank you for coming, Mycroft and for bringing….you know,' Sherlock told his brother. Mycroft tapped the side of his nose with his index finger, to indicate keeping schtum, then the brothers shook hands and Mycroft left.

Sherlock scurried back upstairs to his room. It was empty – Morris must have been holding court somewhere else this evening. He opened the sliding door of his under-bed cupboard and reached in. He felt the smooth leather surface of his violin case, with his fingers and his heart swelled with joy that he would be able to play his violin again, soon. But not yet, not now. He couldn't risk Morris walking in and finding him playing. He had no idea what he might do. Later, when everyone was asleep, then he would play. He would sneak down to the Music Practice Room, which had sound proofing, of sorts. Maybe he would sleep there, in future, so he could play every night, after everyone was in bed. He could hardly wait for Lights Out, which was fifteen minutes later on a Saturday. He curled up in bed and tried to be patient.

ooOoo

At last, midnight came and the house was quiet. Sherlock slipped out of bed, bundled up his duvet and pillow, knelt on the floor and carefully slid open the door to his under-bed cupboard. He reached in and pulled at the violin case. It made a scraping noise and he froze, convinced that it would awaken not just Morris but the whole house, but his room-mate didn't even stir, he just continued to snore softly. Sherlock pulled the case out, making a mental note to wrap it in something in future, so it would not be so noisy. Picking up the duvet bundle and the violin, he tiptoed out of the room and made his way through the house, to the Practice room on the ground floor. He pushed open the door. The moonlight was pouring in through the window, giving everything a silvery sheen. He pushed the door to behind him, laid his bedding bundle on the floor, put his violin case next to it and knelt down. He flicked open the two catches on the case and felt a frisson of excitement and anticipation.

He opened the lid and saw his violin lying there in its cradle, just as he had left it, three weeks before, nestled in the velvet lining, the bow clipped into the lid, the rosin in the little compartment, the cushion that rested on his collar bone, when he played, hooked round the body. Just the smell, as he opened the lid, was almost too much to bear. He took out the bow, tightened the hairs to just the right tension and applied the rosin, methodically, taking his time to do it properly. A musical instrument needed to be treated with respect, cared for, loved and lavished with attention. Having prepared the bow, he put his left hand round the neck of the instrument and lifted it out of its cradle, resting it upright on his knee. He then picked up the soft cloth, that had been lying underneath the body, and wiped the whole instrument, to remove every speck of dust that it may have acquired since he last played it. Finally, he plucked the strings, one by one, to test for tuning – G, D, A, E. He listened to the pitch of each string in isolation and also in relation to the others and adjusted the fine tuning until he was satisfied that it was in perfect tune. All preparation completed, he picked up the bow, stood up and rotated his wrist, raising his arm, to bring the instrument into position, nestling snugly under his chin. The cushion rested on his collar bone, his chin slotted into the chin rest and he breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction. He walked over to the window and, standing in the moonlight, brought the bow up to rest lightly on the E string, then began to play.

He played the first piece that came into his head – Mozart's Violin Concerto No 5, 2nd Movement. Sherlock loved the melodic poignancy of this Adagio. He imagined the orchestral parts in his head but played the solo with his heart. His fingers felt stiff and awkward at first, having not played for three weeks, although he had done his finger exercises every day, but as he played, his fingers loosened and he regained his accustomed ease and fluency. Muscle memory took over and he played without even thinking about where to place his fingers or how to apply the bow. It was as though violin and bow were extensions of his body, responding to signals direct from his brain, without having to be translated into conscious thought. And while he played, he became lost in the music, unaware of his physical surroundings, except for the argent glow of the full moon, through the window glass.

ooOoo


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Harrow School is a real place but all of the character and events depicted are entirely fictitious. I am just using Harrow as a location in which to ground the plot.**

**Chapter Eight**

For the next few days, Sherlock felt he was in a state of bliss. He walked around in a bit of a trance, reliving, in his imagination, the thrill of playing his violin for the first time, after such a long time – the longest break he had ever had from playing. His change of disposition did not go unnoticed. In class, he was distracted and a number of the beaks had to remind him to pay attention, when he failed to answer questions directed to him or sat, gazing into the distance, rather than getting on with written work. Reba also noticed, when she encountered him in and around the house, that he wore a whimsical half-smile and his eyes seemed to glow. The reports started to come in to Mr Wilson, from various sources, that Holmes was not his usual self in lessons but, on Wednesday, came the ultimate proof that something was amiss – he fell asleep in Classics. Holmes always sat in the back of lessons but classes were relatively small – fifteen to twenty pupils in each – so it was not likely to go unnoticed when one normally attentive, engaged pupil slipped sideways off his chair and landed in a heap on the floor. The other pupils laughed uproariously but were quickly silenced by the beak. Sherlock picked himself up off the floor, rubbing his shoulder and looking a little confused. The beak approached him.

'Are you alright, Holmes?' he asked.

'Yes, sir, thank you. Sorry, sir, I lost my balance,' Sherlock explained. The beak looked into his face, noted the pale complexion and dark shadows under the eyes.

'Are you unwell?' he asked, looking concerned.

'No, sir, thank you. I am well, thank you,' Sherlock gabbled, feeling embarrassed to be the centre of everyone's attention, yet again. He sat back down on his chair and blinked his eyes rapidly, in an effort to wake himself up. He wished he could open a window. The classroom was so warm, it was having a soporific effect, which did not help, but he knew that the real problem was that he had had very little sleep the last four nights. Waiting until midnight to sneak down to the Practice Room, then playing his violin for up to an hour, sleeping on the floor and having to wake early to sneak back to his room, he was only managing about five hours' sleep per night. For any individual, this was pushing the limit, but for a thirteen year old, it was completely inadequate. He fought hard to maintain his concentration for the rest of the lesson and, on his way to his next, he called into the Boys' Toilets and splashed cold water on his face.

ooOoo

Later that afternoon, George Wilson rang Reba on her Surgery phone and asked her to join him in his study. On arrival there, he invited her to sit, and closed the door. He only ever closed the door when he was about to tell her something confidential, so she looked at him with increased anticipation. He opened the conversation.

'Have you noticed anything odd about Holmes lately?'

'Well, he has been looking unusually happy, ever since he saw his brother on Saturday. He's been almost smiling. But I also think he looks tired. I've asked him a couple of times if he is sleeping OK and he says he is but I have my doubts,' she replied.

'Hmm, well, I've had quite a few reports that he's not paying attention in class and today he fell off his chair. Mr Cooper thinks he fell asleep.' Mr Wilson was trying to find an appropriate way to say his next sentence but, in the end, decided to go for the blunt approach.

'You don't think he's on something, do you?'

'Like what, exactly?' Reba asked, not dismissing the possibility. It had happened before, when boys had decided to experiment with a few of the less desirable forms of social lubrication readily available in the capital city, for those who had the means and the opportunity.

'Well, there seem to be a number of designer drugs available nowadays. I've read about them in the Sunday supplements. There's that 'E' stuff, Ecstasy. You said you thought he looked happy. You don't suppose his brother gave him something, do you? I mean, he's up at Cambridge. They have lots of Chemistry labs there. The students could be making their own. That was in the Sunday supplements, too.'

Reba had to admit it was possible that big brother had supplied little Holmes with a 'pick me up' but she thought it improbable. Mycroft just did not seem like the type of young man who would give his thirteen year old brother drugs. She considered herself to be a pretty good judge of character and the role of drug pusher just did not fit with the Mycroft Holmes that she thought she knew.

'We can't rule out the possibility but I think there is probably a much simpler explanation,' she concluded.

'Well, let's have him in and have a chat with him, young Holmes, and let's see if we can get to the bottom of this,' George Wilson decided. Reba could not help thinking that this had more to do with Morris than Mycroft but she kept her own counsel. She would wait and see.

ooOoo

At pre-Prep Call Over, the HSM asked for a number of boys to see him afterwards, one being Sherlock. As the boys were dealt with, one by one, Mr Wilson told Sherlock to wait until last. He thought he knew what this was about and wondered what explanation he could give for all the lapses of concentration he had had in the last few days. When all the other boys had gone off to Prep, he was ushered in and Matron came in, too. The door was closed. Sherlock was invited to sit on the sofa, so he perched on the edge, feeling apprehensive. Mr Wilson smiled at him, which was, in itself, alarming.

'How are you, Holmes?' the HSM began.

'I'm very well, thank you, sir,' he replied.

'A number of the beaks have told me you seem to be having a problem concentrating in their lessons and, today, Mr Cooper says you fell asleep in his lesson. Is this true?'

'Yes, sir,' Sherlock replied, looking at the floor.

'Why was that, do you think?' the HSM asked.

'It was rather warm and stuffy in the classroom, sir, and I just sort of dropped off. I should have liked to open a window but I didn't like to ask.'

'Well, Holmes, I'm sure Mr Cooper would rather you open a window than fall asleep in his lesson, don't you think?' Sherlock nodded, feeling wretched and wondering when this interrogation would end.

'So, were all the classrooms stuffy? Is that why you couldn't concentrate in any of your lessons this week?'

'No, sir.' Sherlock was running out of plausible excuses.

'You saw your brother at the weekend, didn't you?' Sherlock nodded, wondering where this line of enquiry was going.

'He didn't give you anything, did he?' the house master asked, pointedly.

Sherlock could not help his reaction. His head shot up and his eyes looked wild. How could they possibly know about his violin, he thought? Neither Mr Wilson nor Miss Everett could fail to notice his dramatic response.

'Oh, so your brother did give you something!' Wilson declared, clearly shocked.

'Please don't tell out father! Mycroft will get into terrible trouble if you do!' Sherlock was frantic. He had promised his brother he would not let anyone know about the violin.

'Well, I'm sorry Holmes but I am afraid I think your brother rather deserves to get into trouble for what he's done. You're only thirteen! What was he thinking?' Sherlock did not quite see what his age had to do with anything but adults had strange ideas, sometimes, he had found, so he dismissed the thought.

'He did it because he knew how much I was missing it, sir,' he said, utterly dejected. His brother would never forgive him for this. And they were just beginning to get on, too.

Missing it? How long had this boy been abusing drugs, that he could be missing them, George Wilson wondered, aghast.

'So where is it?' the house master asked.

'It's in my room, sir, under my bed,' Sherlock replied, feeling sick.

'Oh, my goodness! What if one of the other boys had gotten hold of it!' the HSM was almost beside himself. Drugs in his house! The scandal!

'That's why I hid it under my bed, sir, and only got it out at night, in the Music Practice Room. I didn't want any of the other boys to know about it.'

There was something about this conversation that was not quite ringing true with Reba. She still could not see Mycroft Holmes as a corrupter of minors and Mr Wilson had not actually established with Sherlock what his brother had given him. She thought she had better ask this vital question before things got completely out of hand.

'Sherlock,' she said, injecting a note of caution into the situation, 'what exactly did your brother give to you?' Both her boss and the boy looked at her as though she were asking the obvious but Sherlock answered,

'My violin, of course, Matron.'

Reba could not help herself. She burst out laughing. George Wilson looked from her to the boy and back, completely flummoxed by this revelation and the entirely innocent explanation it provided for this potentially scandalous situation. Sherlock just looked totally confused. Seeing his obvious distress, Reba reined in her hilarity and said,

'So Mycroft brought your violin into school on Saturday of his own volition and didn't ask your father's permission, is that what you are saying?' Sherlock nodded, looking very uncomfortable.

'And you've been going down to the Practice Room at night, in order to play your violin in secret, so that your brother doesn't get into trouble for defying your father?' she continued and received further nods.

'What time have you been going down to play your violin?' she asked.

'After midnight, Matron.'

'And for how long do you play?'

'About an hour, Matron.'

'So you haven't been getting back to bed until after one in the morning, then?'

'No, Matron.' There was something about his body language when he gave that last response that piqued her matron's intuition.

'Where have you been sleeping, Sherlock?' she asked. He looked at her with the demeanour of a startled rabbit.

'Have you been sleeping in the Practice Room, Sherlock?' He dropped his shoulders in an attitude of defeat and nodded, disconsolately.

'How long have you NOT been sleeping in your bed?' She could see she had struck gold with this question, when he rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and gave a deep sigh of resignation.

'Since Morris came back to school, Matron,' he admitted.

George Wilson, who had been observing this verbal exchange with open-mouthed disbelief, found his voice at last.

'But, why, Holmes? You and Morris sorted your differences, didn't you? He apologised. You shook on it.'

'I don't think he meant it, sir. He doesn't like me and I don't trust him.'

'Oh, Holmes, for goodness sake, what is the matter with you, boy?'

'Nothing, sir.' Sherlock really didn't know what else to say. Reba decided she should intervene on the boy's behalf.

'Mr Wilson, perhaps we should let Holmes go and do his Prep and talk about this ourselves?' The house master considered this proposition and decided to agree. He had never come across a boy like Holmes. The child was clearly paranoid.

'Very well, Holmes, go and get on with your Prep while Matron and I decide what to do about you.'

Reba sighed, inwardly, smiled at Sherlock and nodded her head to tell him to leave the room. He walked back through the house, wondering how he had become the problem when all he wanted was to be left alone. He wondered what would happen, now they knew he was sleeping in the Practice Room. Would they insist he sleep in his bed? If that was the case, he would have to stay awake all night, after all.

Once the boy had gone, George turned to his matron and said,

'Oh, my goodness, I wish I had known what a problem this boy would be, I never would have agreed to take him. I would have found a way to dissuade the parents from choosing this house. The Prep schools really should be more honest when they write reports on these children.'

'George, forgive me but I do think you are being rather unfair to Holmes. He is the victim here, after all.' She could see that her boss was affronted by her outspokenness so she pre-empted his retort by making a suggestion.

'I think this boy would gain enormous benefit from a spell in Gayton. He is exactly the sort of pupil for whom Gayton was established.'

George Wilson was surprised by this left field suggestion and his retort was frozen in his throat. He thought about what she had said then replied.

'But he's only a Shell. We've never had a Shell in Gayton. The youngest have been Removes. He would be completely isolated there.'

'George, he's completely isolated here. He doesn't join in anything; he doesn't engage with anyone, he's invisible. This environment is too big, too impersonal. He needs a smaller unit, higher staffing ratios, somewhere he could be nurtured and encouraged to join in, to socialise. He is ideal Gayton material, I would have thought and I don't think his young age should militate against him. Are we really saying we should let him struggle for a whole year until he is old enough to qualify? If we let him access the support now, we could help him become integrated into the house and the school, this year. Why wait?'

George Wilson could not fault her logic but he still was not entirely convinced.

'Well, it's not really down to me. The Head Master would have to make the final decision, in consultation with the staff of Gayton.'

Well, shouldn't we at least explore the possibility? I am more than happy to write a report, explaining why I would recommend this course of action,' she urged. George Wilson was fully aware that his matron had some very strong opinions and was not afraid to voice them but he worried, sometimes, that she over-stepped the mark in her role. She was, after all, just a matron and not a member of the academic staff. Admittedly, she was a Psychology graduate from a very prestigious university and she did have considerable experience in the field of Special Education, prior to coming to Harrow but, she was not a teacher here. She sometimes needed to be reminded of this. However, noting the determined expression on her face, he decided this was not one of those times.

'Very well,' he agreed, 'I will suggest to the Head Master that we consider this course of action. If you would be so kind to put your reasoning in writing, I will see to it that it is taken into consideration.'

'I will do that. And, George, if a group discussion is arranged, I would like to be invited to attend,' she replied.

'I think that might be pushing it a bit too far,' he warned her. Looking at her fierce expression, he wisely decided not to add the bit about her being just a matron.

'And, until a decision has been made about the boy's future, can I suggest that he sleep in the Sick Bay, next to my flat. It's there for the purpose of accommodating pupils who are not quite ill enough to be in the San but who need to be kept an eye on. We don't have anyone in that condition at the moment, so Holmes would not be taking a space that someone else needs. He is clearly afraid to sleep in his own room. If we want him to stay awake in lessons, it seems a reasonable short-term solution to me.' She was on a bit of a mission and was prepared to stick her neck out as far as need be. Her boss admitted defeat and acceded to her wishes.

Reba Everett returned to her Surgery, angry, triumphant, frustrated and vindicated – all in equal measures. She had known it was wrong to make Holmes continue to room with his nemesis. It frustrated her that it had had to come to this before her concerns were taken seriously. She really hated the fact that the Academics saw themselves as innately superior to the support staff, even though she, for one, was equally as qualified as many of the beaks and, when it came to good old fashioned common sense, the Academics, in general, came a very poor second. Ivory Tower Syndrome, she called it. She sat at her desk and hammered out her frustration on her word processor, writing her recommendation that Holmes be sent for a stint in Gayton, employing as much psycho-babble as she could muster – far more than she would normally have used – just to make a point. When the bell went for the end of Prep, she took her report, in an internal mail envelope and left it in the HSM's pigeon hole, then went up to Holmes' room. He was lying on his bed, reading a book. Morris was not there. Knocking on the door, as she entered, she smiled at him and said,

'Sherlock, you are going to be sleeping in the Sick Bay for a few nights. Bring your bedding, your PJ's and your toiletries. And bring your violin, too.' He looked at her in amazement then got up from his bed and began to gather together his night things.

ooOoo


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Harrow School is a real place but all of the character and events depicted are entirely fictitious. I am just using Harrow as a location in which to ground the plot.**

**Chapter Nine**

Sherlock carried his things into the Sick Bay, almost overcome with relief that he would be able to sleep in a bed for the first time for nearly two weeks. He had no idea what had been said in the HSM's study after he left but he was fairly sure it was Matron's idea that he sleep in the Sick Bay. He was so grateful! Had he been a more demonstrative person, he might even have hugged her, but that was not really in his repertoire of social behaviours. Instead, he just said 'Thank you' repeatedly, as he followed her to the room next door to her flat. Eventually, she turned to him, put a hand on his shoulder and said,

'It's OK, Sherlock, you don't have to keep thanking me. You are more than welcome, really.' She showed him the little shower room attached to the Sick Bay and also pointed out the call bell that rang in her flat, if he needed anything in the night but she was fairly sure that he would be too busy catching up on his sleep to be ringing any bells.

'Now, you can play your violin in here but not after Lights Out, please, as there are boys sleeping above and below you and I am right next door, OK?' He nodded, emphatically. And, during the day, you can leave your night things in here – and your violin, too. If I need to use it for someone, I'll put your things somewhere safe. But, to be honest, it's Fixed Exeat this weekend and people don't usually get ill just before an Exeat. Are you looking forward to seeing your family this weekend, Sherlock?' she asked, speculatively.

'I don't know if my parents will be there, Matron. My father is away on a diplomatic mission, still, I think, and Mummy is probably still in Cannes. Mycroft is up at Cambridge, so, I might not see any of them,' he replied, very matter-of-fact.

'So who looks after you, when you go home?' she asked, trying not to sound judgmental.

'The staff take care of me. We have a cook, a house keeper, a butler, a chauffeur and a game keeper. I used to have a nanny, when I was younger but, once I turned thirteen, she was let go,' he explained.

'And how long was she your nanny for?' Reba asked, not sure how much she wanted to hear the answer but unable not to ask the question.

'All my life. She was Mycroft's nanny first, then mine,' he replied.

'And do you still hear from her?' Reba, again, could not resist asking.

'Not so far, although she might have sent me a Good Luck card to the house. She said she would. It might be there when I get home.' He was so noncommittal in the way he spoke, she was rather shocked.

'Do you miss her, Sherlock?' she ventured.

He looked at her in a curious way, as though he had never considered this possibility before.

'Not really. She was just someone who looked after me. She was very strict about when I was allowed to see her. She always had a nap in the afternoon, so I had to occupy myself during that time, and she didn't like it if I woke her up during the night for any reason, even if I was ill. I'm not ill very often, fortunately.'

'So is there anyone that you do miss, from home?' she asked, hoping this could not be construed as a leading question. She was genuinely concerned about this boy's emotional welfare.

'I miss the cook. She is a really good cook and she makes cakes and biscuits, when Mycroft or I are home. I like to sit in the kitchen, because the Aga is always lit, except during the summer, of course. It would be unbearably hot in there if it were lit in the summer. She's really nice. The chauffeur's nice, too. He takes me to places, to air shows and the Science Museum and the London Dungeon, anywhere I want to go, really.'

This was the most animated Reba had ever seen him and she was reminded of his prep school matron's comment about him talking for England if you got him onto a topic he liked.

'Well, that sounds lovely, Sherlock. I do hope you have a fun Exeat, even if you don't get to spend time with your family. OK, I'll leave you to settle in. It's nearly time for Lights Out, so I don't think you'll be able to play your violin tonight,' she said, apologetically.

'That's OK, thank you, Matron. I don't mind. I'm rather looking forward to a good night's sleep!' he responded and actually smiled. It was a broad smile that lit up his whole face and made his eyes sparkle. It was quite something to behold. My word, Reba thought to herself, as she walked back through the house to check the other Shells were getting ready for bed, he is going to be breaking some hearts before too long, with those eyes and that smile – not to mention those cheekbones! Half an hour later, when she looked in on him, he was sound asleep, curled up in the foetal position, lost to the world.

ooOoo

The meeting to decide Sherlock's immediate future took place the next day. Those present were the Head Master, Mr Wilson, the HSM of Gayton, Mr Anders (Resident Tutor at Gayton), the Second Master, who was responsible for Pastoral Care, and the school counsellor. George Wilson described the incidents involving Sherlock, since the beginning of term, which, considering he had not even been in the school for a month yet, were quite numerous – beginning with him absconding on the first day and ending with the revelation that he had been sleeping in the house library and the Music Practice Room. The Head Master had read Reba's report and disseminated it amongst those present, in advance of the meeting, so that they could be familiar with what it contained. They had all been given a copy of his Prep School report, also. The head man put forward the proposal that Sherlock be admitted to Gayton for a six week period, for assessment and to see if a smaller environment could help him become more integrated within the school, then asked each of those present to give an opinion.

The counsellor spoke first. He said that, having read the matron's report, he had to agree with her evaluation, especially as she had the most detailed knowledge of the boy, having spent the most time with him, compared to everyone else. He also commented that Miss Everett was clearly a highly qualified professional, in her own right and that, had they commissioned this report, it would have cost the school a considerable sum, so they would be foolish to disregard it.

Mr Anders explained his part in the incident on the first day of term and said he thought the boy would benefit from a stay in Gayton. He said he would like to work with him and thought that, in view of his earlier dealings, he would be able to build some sort of rapport. The HSM of Gayton, who had no knowledge of Sherlock except what he had read, was only concerned that he was so young. The other boys in the over-spill house were all older. The Second Mater reiterated these concerns.

Mr Wilson repeated the same sentiment but also thought that the smaller unit would suit Sherlock better. Secretly, he was rather keen to have the boy out of his house, if only for a short time, as he could not understand his attitude. He still believed Sherlock was paranoid, but he kept that to himself.

The Head Master concluded that the majority opinion was, that it could be beneficial for Holmes to move, temporarily, to Gayton, with the reservation with regard to his young age. He agreed that the parents should have the final say but that he would recommend they support the move. He said he would speak to them by telephone, that day, so that they could discuss the matter with their son during the Exeat Weekend. When George Wilson reported this to Reba, she snorted with derision and told her boss the gist of the conversation she had had with Sherlock the day before.

'Well, they may have a strange approach to parenthood, but they are his legal guardians, so we must wait to hear their opinion,' Mr Wilson concluded.

'You did tell the Head Master not to mention the violin, didn't you, George?' Reba asked.

'No, I did not, Reba. We cannot be seen to be colluding with the pupils against the parents. That is unprofessional,' George Wilson replied, full of righteous indignation.

'Oh, George, I'm not asking you to collude, I'm just saying we don't have to mention it up front. Sherlock's brother put his neck on the line for him and he feels bad that Mycroft will get into trouble for that,' Reba tried to reason with him.

'No, Reba, we are not keeping secrets from parents. That way lies disaster.' Mr Wilson made it clear that was to be the last word on the subject. Reba had to concede that one and retreated to her surgery, thinking to herself that, in the Disaster Stakes, keeping Holmes and Morris in the same dorm had been by far the biggest!

ooOoo

Thursday evening, after Prep, Reba was in her Surgery when Sherlock came to her door. It was the first time, as far as she could remember, that he had actually sort her out.

'What can I do for you, Sherlock?' she asked.

'I was wondering if I could go into the Sick Bay and play my violin?' he asked. It was nine-fifteen, so forty-five minutes to Lights Out.

'Of course you can, sweetie. Just make sure you're ready for bed on time,' she replied. He smiled and said,

'Yes, Matron, of course,' and almost skipped off to the Sick Bay just along the corridor. Reba was waiting for boys to come for their evening medication – she only had two, one on antibiotics, three times daily, and one who took antihistamines, so took them at bed time, as they made him drowsy – so she sat in her Surgery and listened with anticipation for Sherlock to begin playing.

When he did, she could hear him clearly, through the closed door of the Sick Bay. He began with scales and fingering exercises. These in themselves were impressive, in the speed and accuracy with which his fingers flew up and down the finger board and the smooth glide of the bow on each string and from string to string. As someone who had learned to play violin in Primary School but given up, at the age of eleven, in favour of the guitar, she had never really progressed beyond the scraping stage so she had the greatest admiration for anyone who could get a sweet note from a fiddle. However, having completed his warm up, Sherlock moved onto the performance phase of his practice and the matron sat transfixed by the exquisite purity of his playing. She recognised the piece and thought it was Bach but she could not name it. She was completely mesmerised, so much so, that when her first patient arrived, she didn't even notice him. He had to knock on her door to get her attention.

'Oh, sorry, Arrick, I was miles away,' she apologised.

'That's Ok, Matron. Who is that playing?' Arrick asked.

'It's Holmes,' she told him.

'What, the gee…., I mean the…..erm. Oh, you know who I mean, Matron,' he stammered.

'Yes, Arrick, I know who you mean and I would have expected better from you. You are one of the good guys,' she admonished.

'Sorry, Matron, but he is a bit weird, isn't he?' the boy replied

'He can be as weird as he likes, if he can play like that, in my book,' Reba observed.

'He is bloody good!' Arrick remarked, then suddenly remembered who he was talking to and blushed.

'Yes, Arrick, he is bloody good,' she smiled, and gave him his medication. 'If you see Freddie Jones, can you remind him to come for his meds, please, save me having to go and find him?'

'Sure, Matron, and you can sit here a bit longer and listen to Yehudi Menuhin, there,' Arrick replied with a smile, and went on his way.

Reba smiled. Arrick Grant was a nice boy, one of her favourites, if such a thing were allowed. He was almost sixteen, in the Fifth Form, very good at sport and quite competent academically but she liked him most because he was kind-hearted. He would go back to his friends and tell them about Sherlock's brilliant playing. She could not think of a better person to be an ambassador for the Holmes boy. The more people like Arrick on his side, the better off he would be. Sherlock was playing something else now. She knew this piece. It was Vivaldi's 'Four Seasons' but not the first movement. She thought it was perhaps the second, as it was slower and more soulful than the first of the piece, so that would make it Summer. My goodness, she thought, she could listen to this forever, but it was not to be. The music stopped and she waited for another piece to begin but it did not. She looked at her wall clock. It was ten to ten. He had obviously stopped for the evening to get ready for bed. Oh, well, she thought, I guess I will just have to go and find Freddie Jones, after all, and off she went.

ooOoo

The next day, Friday, was a half day, as the boys would be leaving for their Fixed Exeat weekend at lunch time. This was usually the middle weekend of every half term, when the boys all went home. Those whose family lived abroad would spend the weekend with their UK guardians, people nominated by the parents to be responsible for their child or children and to represent them at school functions. This was a task usually assigned to relatives – aunts, uncles and so on – or sometimes family friends or god parents. In the absence of anyone of this nature, there were professional guardians, who would take on the role for a fee. Professional guardians normally acted for more than one family, so they might have two or more unrelated pupils staying with them for exeats. Similarly, if a child whose parents lived abroad was ill during school time and too ill to stay in the San, or if a pupil was 'rusticated' for a serious infringement of the rules, they would have to go to and be looked after by their UK guardians. It was, therefore, compulsory for non-UK resident pupils to have a guardian in the UK. Reba had mused about whether they should insist that the Holmes had an official UK guardian, since they seemed to spend so much time out of the country, but it could not be Mycroft as he was not yet twenty-one.

It was part of the matron's job to make sure that every pupil's travel arrangements were verified – who was being picked up by whom and when, who was traveling alone by train or taxi, or even plane, sometimes, and, again, at what time, and so on. Some parents organised a pool, to take turns collecting one another's children. All the parents had been reminded, by letter, at the beginning of term, to advise the school of the exeat weekend travel arrangements. By whatever means they were travelling, no child could leave the house with anyone other than their parent or appointed guardian unless written permission had been obtained from the parents. This could sometimes be a problem, if parents made alternative arrangements but forgot to inform the school. On such occasions, frantic phone calls would be made to the parents concerned, followed by a hurriedly written fax, sent by the offending parent, often with the pupil and their alternative means of travel standing by, waiting for the OK. Tempers could be short, at such times, but Reba would remain calm and steadfast in the face of it all. No child left her house with anyone for whom she did not have written parental permission – EVER.

Consequently, when Sherlock's family chauffeur arrived to collect him on Friday lunchtime, Reba had to apologise and say she had not been advised by the parents that this would be the case. She asked the chauffeur if either of the parents were at home, at the moment, and if not, how they might be contacted.

'No, ma'am, Mr and Mrs Holmes are not at home at the moment. Mr Holmes is abroad and Mrs Holmes is in London, at a charity lunch,' the chauffeur advised her.

'Could you tell me where this lunch is taking place,' she asked.

'Yes, ma'am, at the Grosvenor Hotel, on Buckingham Palace Road,' he explained.

'Thank you,' Reba replied and went up to her surgery. She rang Directory Enquiries and got the number for the Grosvenor, then rang it. When the operator answered, she asked to speak to the Functions Manager and was put through immediately. The person picked up on the second ring. Reba first established that this was the person she needed to speak to and that there was a charity lunch taking place there today, receiving a positive answer to both questions. She introduced herself as Miss Reba Everett, a Matron of Harrow School, then explained the reason for her call.

'I need to speak urgently to one of the ladies attending the lunch, a Mrs Holmes. Also, can I ask, do you have a fax machine there?' The Manager confirmed that he did, indeed, have a fax machine and that he knew the lady whom Miss Everett needed to speak to. He asked her to hold the line. Reba waited. Presently, the same person came back on the line, sounding apologetic.

'Mrs Holmes has asked me to ask why this matter is so urgent,' he relayed. Reba adopted her most accommodating tone of voice.

'Could you, please, advise Mrs Holmes that her chauffeur has arrived to collect her son from school but I do need her written permission to allow him to take the boy. If she would be so kind as to send a signed fax, to that effect, I will be more than happy to release the child into the chauffeur's safe keeping.' She smiled as she spoke, in order to give the words the correct amount of charm, but, inwardly, she was fuming. She would have cheerfully strangled Mrs bloody Holmes, right now. The other party went off again and, after another lengthy pause, returned to the phone and advised Reba that he had obtained the required signature and would be sending the fax as soon as he hung up the call. Reba thanked him, hung up and waited. Presently, her fax machine rang out and then began to chatter and the fax was printed. When the call ended, she picked up the sheet of paper and looked at the scrawled signature under the note that read:

'Let the damn chauffeur take the child, will you?'

Reba went to her filing cabinet, found Sherlock's file, took out his medical information form, signed by his mother and compared the signatures. They matched. She filed the fax, in Sherlock's notes, retuned them to the drawer and closed the cabinet. She then walked back out to the lobby, where Sherlock waited with the chauffeur. She apologised to the man and the boy, for the delay but declared that they were free to go. She then gave Sherlock a quick hug, which he didn't seem to object to, and waved him off for his Exeat Weekend. Walking back into the house, Reba mentally chalked that up as a victory to her. Mrs Holmes might think she could do as she pleased but, where Reba was concerned, if she didn't play by the rules, she would not be playing at all.

ooOoo

**Sincere apologies to Guest who advised on violin tuning. It has, unfortunately, been many years since I tuned a violin! Thanks for the tip! All corrected, now. Much appreciated.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Harrow School is a real place but all of the characters and events depicted are entirely fictitious. I am just using Harrow as a location in which to ground the plot.**

**Chapter Ten**

When Sherlock arrived home for his Exeat Weekend, he headed straight for the kitchen, the aroma of baking luring him on, long before he reached his destination. On entering the warm, cosy environment, he found the cook, preparing vegetables for the evening meal. She had her back to the door but heard it squeak as he pushed it open, and said,

'Hello, there, Master Sherlock! What brings you to my kitchen?' she asked.

'I was wondering if you'd been baking, Mrs Martin,' he explained, observing the usual home-coming ritual that he and Mycroft had become accustomed to, whilst washing his hands in the kitchen sink.

'Were you now?' she replied, turning to him, wiping her hands on her apron. 'Well, lucky for you, I have been. Let's see what we've got here.' She opened the cool oven of the Aga and, using a tea towel as an oven glove, took out a plate of fruit scones. She carried them to the large, pine kitchen table and placed the plate on a wooden board, in the middle.

'You sit yourself down, young man, while I get you sorted. What would you like on your scones?' she asked.

'Jam and cream, please,' Sherlock replied, pulling out the chair closest to the Aga and sitting. Mrs Martin went to the pantry and returned with a jar of homemade strawberry jam, placing it on the table, then to the large refrigerator and took out a tub of clotted cream, which she also placed next to the jam. She took a place mat from the pile at the far end off the table, put it in front of Sherlock, then went to the dresser and returned with a plate, a dessert knife and a tea spoon, which she positioned on his mat. Opening a drawer in the table, she took out a spoon and scooped a large dollop of cream from the tub, plopping that onto the plate.

'You help yourself, dearie,' she urged him, as she took the tub of clotted cream back to the fridge. He didn't need to be asked twice. He took a large, warm scone from the top of the pile, broke it in half, along a fault line in the pastry, removed the lid from the jam jar and spooned some of the sweet, red preserve onto his plate, then set about applying the jam and cream to the two halves of the scone, before taking a big bite. In the meanwhile, Mrs Martin had lifted one of the covers off the Aga hob and moved a large kettle onto the hot plate. It began to sing, immediately, and was soon boiling. She made a small pot of tea and placed it on a metal trivet, in front of Sherlock, alongside a large blue mug, a sugar bowl and a small jug of milk. Going back to her previous occupation, preparing vegetables, she asked him about his first month at school.

'How are you settling in, Master Sherlock?' He thought carefully before answering.

'Not that well, to be honest, Mrs Martin. The boy I share with doesn't like me so I don't like sleeping in there. I was sleeping in the library, then the Music Practice Room and then the Sick Bay. I don't know where I'll be sleeping when I go back.' Mrs Martin listened, somewhat confused, but assumed that this was some sort of school boy prank and decided to pretend she hadn't heard it. He then went on to tell her all about his fencing lessons, his visit to the hospital and falling asleep in his Classics lesson. She listened with half an ear, making appropriate comments at appropriate moments but not really taking any of it in. Sherlock didn't seem to notice and carried on chattering until he had finished his second scone and another mug of tea, then said thank you, took his dirty plate, mug, knife and spoon to the draining board, rinsed his hands under the tap and dried them on the hand towel, hanging from Aga rail, told Mrs Martin he would see her later, and went off to his room.

ooOoo

Sherlock had moved out of the Nursery Suite, at the beginning of the summer holidays. It was a Rite of Passage ritual that all the Holmes children, for time immemorial, had gone through, on leaving Prep School. They were moving into the senior phase of their education, so were no longer deemed to be in need of a nanny, therefore they left the Nursery. Sherlock being the youngest in the family, the nanny's services were no longer required, so she had left to go to another family. He had felt more aggrieved about leaving the Nursery than he had about losing the nanny. He liked being in the Nursery Suite. It was up in the top of the house, far away from all the other bedrooms, and, from the window, he could see right across the parkland that surrounded their house, and, most especially, up the drive way. He used to love standing in that window, playing his violin and surveying the surrounding countryside, and checking out any visitors before they actually arrived. After he moved out, the nursery was 'mothballed', which involved cleaning and packing away all the contents, along with a liberal sprinkling of moth balls, covering the furniture in dust sheets and closing the wooden shutters, which effectively put it off limits for any clandestine return visits. Sherlock had been evicted!

His new room was at the back of the house, which only afforded a view of the outbuildings and the end wall of the old kitchen garden, which was about twelve feet high. It was on the north side of the building, too, so the sun never shone into the window. He didn't much like his new furniture, which was dark oak and very big and chunky, whereas the Nursery furniture was light ash and much more friendly, somehow. He sat on his new bed and looked around at his possessions, which looked so out of place in this strange room. No one had asked him how he felt about his new bedroom, how he felt about his new school, how he felt about anything. He seemed to have no control over his own destiny, at all.

After Mr Clough, the chauffeur, had dropped Sherlock at home, he had driven back to London to collect Mrs Holmes from the Grosvenor. On her arrival back at the house, she made straight for her youngest son's room. Bursting in, she found him sitting on his bed, looking startled at her sudden appearance. He had not heard or seen the car arrive, being at the back of the house.

'Sherlock, what have you been up to?' she snapped. He looked at her with shock and puzzlement.

'Nothing! I mean, when? What do you mean?' he asked, completely at a loss to know what she was referring to. He had just been sitting on his bed.

'Mr Routledge rang me, this morning, while I was trying to get dressed for my lunch. They want to put you in the Sin Bin house!' He jumped to his feet, startled still further by her raised voice and agitated manner, and also by her words. This was the first he had heard of any such proposal. The Head Master had deemed it inappropriate to discuss the matter with him until the parents had had the opportunity to discuss the proposal between themselves. He knew what she meant by 'the Sin Bin house'. Some of the boys called Gayton that, because boys were sometimes sent there as an alternative to rustication.

'I haven't done anything wrong!' he insisted.

'Well, apparently, you ran away from school on the very first day!'

'I didn't run away. I was afraid of some of the other boys. I ran away from them, not from school.'

'Well, that's not what the Head Master told me, although why he's waited this long to mention it, I'd like to know. And you haven't been sleeping in your own bed, either, have you?'

'No,' he replied, sitting back down on his bed, feeling desolate.

'Why ever not? All the money your father is paying for you to be there and you sleep on the floor in the Library? Whatever is the matter with your bed?'

'Nothing, Mummy, there's nothing wrong with my bed, apart from where it is.'

'Where it is? What is that supposed to mean?'

'Nothing,' he replied, sullenly.

'And what's this about you playing your violin in the middle of the night? I thought you were leaving your violin at home? Did you take it with you, against your father's specific instructions?'

He had to think fast here. If he said yes, she would want to know why Mycroft did not stop him. If he said no, she would want to know how he got his violin to school. Either way, the game was up. He made his decision.

'Yes, I took it with me. I hid it in my trunk,' he lied.

'So, you've been playing your violin all night, sleeping on the floor and falling asleep in lessons, which is precisely the reason why your father told you to leave the damn violin at home, isn't it?'

Well, not exactly, he thought. Surely no one could have predicted that particular scenario? She took his silence for agreement.

'And now they want to put you in the house with all the naughty boys! What do you say to that?' she barked.

'Good!' he barked back. 'I'm glad! I want to go in the Sin Bin house! At least in Gayton, no one will be trying to kill me!'

'What on earth are you talking about, child? No one is trying to kill you. That boy who sat on you, it was a mistake. Your house master told me!'

'Oh, well, if Mr Wilson told you, then it must be bloody true, mustn't it?' he yelled back at her. He had shocked himself and his face registered the fact. She stood up very tall and straight and stared down at him.

'How dare you speak to me like that? I am your mother and you will speak to me with respect, do you understand?'

'Yes, Mummy, and I'm sorry but Morris told me he was going to kill me. He said I pretended to be half dead just to get him into trouble and that I wouldn't have to pretend next time. So I can't go to sleep if he is there in case he tries to kill me in my sleep.'

Much to his dismay, he could feel tears pricking the backs of his eyes, and a lump in his throat. His mother, however, was unmoved by his distress. She was still affronted that he had used the 'b' word. She stood, glaring at him and wondering what she had ever done to deserve such a troublesome child.

'Why do you have to behave like this, Sherlock? Why can't you be more like your brother? He would never do anything like this. He is always such a good boy.' This was the final insult, for Sherlock. He had had enough.

'Oh, really? Always such a good boy? Well, I lied about the violin, Mummy. I didn't hide it in my trunk. Mycroft brought it to me, when he came to see me last weekend. He went against Father's wishes. So, not always such a good boy, eh?'

Even as he was saying these words, he knew he was making a terrible mistake but he just could not stop himself. He sat on the bed, stunned by his own stupidity, staring at his mother's shocked face. She stared back at him and then seemed to regain her composure.

'You are a wicked child, Sherlock, indeed you are. I think the Sin Bin house is the right place for you. I will ring Mr Routledge and tell him to put you there,' and, with that, she turned and walked out of the room. He sat motionless for a minute at least, then put his head in his hands, thinking,

'Oh God, what have I done? Mycroft will never forgive me now.'

ooOoo

Sherlock spent much of the Exeat Weekend in his room. He and his mother ate their meals in silence, in the formal dining room, she refusing to speak to him or even acknowledge his presence. The rest of the time, she went about her usual business – writing letters, making phone calls, organising charity auctions, and social events. With cubbing nearly over, the hunting season was just around the corner and the Holmes family always hosted the first meet of the season, in front of the house. There were shooting weekends, too, with house guests. Christmas was less than three months away and then there would be New Year. 'The Season' did not begin until Spring, but then there would be ladies' luncheons and debutantes' balls, not to mention the Chelsea Flower Show, Royal Ascot and Wimbledon. These things took a great deal of planning and they did not organise themselves.

Sherlock tried to amuse himself as best he could, reading mostly. He went out for a walk for about an hour on each of the two days, just for a change of scenery and to escape the oppressive atmosphere inside the house. Mrs Martin made him afternoon tea, on Saturday and Sunday, which he ate in the kitchen, and Mr Clough let him sit in the car, listening to the radio, whilst he washed and polished the vehicle on Sunday morning. On Sunday evening, he said goodbye to his mother and got into the back of the car, for the trip back to school. She told him to be good, waved briefly, as the car pulled away and then went back into the house. Sherlock surprised himself. He was actually looking forward to being back at school.

ooOoo


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Harrow School is a real place but all of the character and events depicted are entirely fictitious. I am just using Harrow as a location in which to ground the plot.**

**Chapter Eleven**

Sunday evening, on an Exeat Weekend, was a busy time in the house. All the boys were supposed to be back by nine in the evening but the vagaries of Sunday travel sometimes caught people out. It was a favourite day to schedule maintenance on the railways, which might mean services cancelled all together or replacement bus services, so that part of the journey had to be completed by road. Parents often kept their children home as late as possible, just to have more time with them, meaning they cut it rather fine to make the nine o'clock deadline. As each boy returned to the fold, Reba ticked them off on her Call Over list. Once back in house, they were under school rules, which, on a Sunday evening, meant not being allowed out of house after seven fifteen. The boys had a lot of catching up to do, with one another, talking about their weekend at home, so they sat around the house in groups of various sizes, chatting, gaming watching TV or playing table tennis or snooker.

Mr Wilson had told Reba earlier in the day that Mrs Holmes had agreed to Sherlock moving to Gayton so she was responsible for organising the move. She had arranged for one of the porters to bring his trunk up from the trunk store but she would not touch his belongings until he arrived. She would never be so intrusive. But she would help him to pack and to move over and settle in to the new house. She would still be his matron, in the new house, as Gayton did not have a matron of its own. If he were ill or had any other pastoral needs, she and the over-spill house staff would sort out amongst themselves who could best attend to these needs. He would still be a member of The Park and would go there during the day but he would spend his evenings, nights and all his weekend free time at Gayton.

ooOoo

Sherlock arrived back at the house at about seven o'clock in the evening, delivered by the chauffeur. Reba was in the lobby, chatting with the parents of another boy when he walked in through the door. She put her hand out to stop him and he waited patiently while she quickly finished her conversation, then she turned to him.

'Sherlock, I hear that your mum has agreed to you moving to Gayton for a while,' she began, smiling. His scowl told her that this had not been a welcome revelation.

'Come with me,' she said, and led the way to her surgery. Once inside, she invited him to sit in the arm chair. She sat on her desk chair.

'How do you feel about going to Gayton for six weeks, because that's how long you'll be there?' He looked her full in the eyes and said,

'I couldn't be happier, Matron, to be honest. The further away from Morris I am, the better, but my mother is not pleased. She said I was being sent to the Sin Bin house, with the other naughty boys. She says I'm a wicked child and that is where I belong.' The complete lack of emotion in his voice and facial expression when he spoke these cruel and vicious words was almost as shocking as the words themselves. Reba had to be very careful what she said next. She could not be seen to criticise the parent but she could not leave such a statement unchallenged, since it was entirely inaccurate.

'Sherlock, I know that some of the boys call Gayton the 'Sin Bin' house but it is not and never has been intended to be a negative concept. Gayton is a small environment with higher staff/pupil ratios, for the benefit of pupils who we think need a little more support than others to cope with living in a boarding environment. No one is ever sent there as a punishment. The idea is that pupils spend a short time there, so that they and we can work together to help them feel more at home in the school, more like they belong. The reason why I - and it was me - recommended you go there is because I think you had a very unfair start to your time here which, to be honest, was mostly our fault. As she spoke, she went to her filing cabinet and opened the drawer which contained all the pupils' confidential files. She took his out, opened it and removed her copy of the report she had written for the Head Master. She gave him the papers and invited him to read it.

'I wrote it about you, so it is only fair that you should see what it says,' she explained. 'I'll leave you alone for a moment, but, when you have finished, please do not take it away with you. It is confidential and I probably could get into a lot of trouble for even letting you see it, let alone should anyone else get hold of it. Are you with me on this?' He nodded so she left the room and stood outside in the corridor, giving him some privacy.

Sherlock began to read the report. It was quite technical in places, using psychological terminology but he read a lot of science magazines, so there weren't any terms there that he hadn't come across before. As he read the account of his first month at the school, written from a third person perspective, he had the strangest feeling that someone had opened his head and looked inside. All his perceptions were laid out in this document, written in formal scientific language, but so precise and so accurate that he could hardly believe that he had not written it himself. He read about his devastation at having to leave behind his beloved violin, his trepidation at finding himself confronted by the boys who assaulted him, his shock and horror at the realisation that he could have died, his relief in finding that Morris was not in the house when he returned from hospital, his dismay when he discovered that he still had to share a room with the boy who had almost killed him and the absolute joy at being reunited with his violin but obliged to keep it and play it in secret, in order to protect his brother, making it unavoidable that he must play it at night, thus depriving himself of sleep. He read in these graphic descriptions all the logical decisions he had taken, so logical that no other course of action could have been deemed appropriate. It was all there in black and white. He read to the end, including the recommendation that he be given a place in Gayton so that staff could try to repair the damage caused by his traumatic induction to the school and the house; so that he might become as well integrated into the Harrow environment as possible for him, as an individual, high-lighting the fact that every pupil had a different Harrow experience, specific to them and that pupils should not be seen as a homogenous group but as a group of separate, unique entities. Having finished reading, he sat holding the sheaf of papers, gazing at them, rendered somewhat speechless.

Presently, he stood, put the report on Matron's desk and walked to the door of the surgery. She was standing outside and turned to look at him, when he appeared in the doorway.

Matron,' he said, 'I don't know what to say.'

'You don't have to say anything, Sherlock. Let's go and get you packed up.' She sent him on ahead to begin his packing, whilst she returned the report to the filing cabinet and locked the door, then followed in his wake to his room, to help him get sorted.

ooOoo

Having caught up with Sherlock in his room, she advised him to pack things he would need for Sunday night and Monday morning in a separate bag to take with him to Gayton that evening. His trunk would be delivered by one of the porters, the next day.

'I know it's only just down the road but I'll take you in my car, then we can take your bedding and your violin, too.' At the mention of his violin, she saw his face fall rather dramatically.

'Did the Head Master tell your parents about the violin?' she asked. He nodded.

'So are you being allowed to keep it?'

'I don't know,' he replied. 'My father is still away so I expect I'm alright until he gets back but, after that, I will have to wait and see.' He still seemed perturbed about something but she decided not to pursue it. One thing at a time, she thought, and right now, the 'thing' was moving. Having packed everything up, she sent him to the Sick Bay, to collect the things he had left there, on Friday, then they both carried his overnight things down the stairs and out to her car. The narrow streets of Harrow-on-the-Hill were still quite clogged with cars retuning boys from their exeat but Reba manoeuvred her car along the High Street onto Peterborough Road and then along Davidson Lane turning left onto the one-way street Grove Hill, pulling up right outside the over-spill house. She helped Sherlock to carry his things into the house, through the main entrance. Mr Anders, who was in the Tutors' Study, came to greet them. Sherlock recognised him as the man who had helped him on the first day of term, which made him feel less awkward about being in this strange house. Mr Anders showed him to the room that would be his home for the next six weeks. It was a single, on the first floor, facing the street.

'Leave your things in here for now, Holmes, and I'll show you around the house. Most of the other boys are back now, so I'll introduce you, at the same time.' Reba turned to Sherlock and said,

'I'll leave you with Mr Anders, now, Sherlock. He'll make sure you know where everything is. I'll have your trunk brought over tomorrow so you will be able to unpack properly. Don't forget, you still belong to the Park, so come for Call Over at lunch time and your old bed is still yours, if you need somewhere to hang out, while you are there alright?' He nodded and thanked her for her help. She said goodnight to him and the beak and she left.

'Right then, let's go!' said Mr Anders, cheerfully, and took Sherlock off to meet his new house mates. The other boys were mostly Removes but there were also two Fifths and a boy in Lower Sixth. The Removes were all in double rooms, the others, including Sherlock, were in singles. He hoped the ones in doubles wouldn't hold that against him but he need not have worried. The other boys seemed very affable and seemed to get on quite well together. The 6th Former was a bit aloof but he still shook Sherlock's hand and bid him welcome to the House of Ill Repute. He didn't actually know what that meant but figured it was something smutty by the sniggering response of the other boys.

'OK, guys, no fun at Holmes' expense, please. Let the poor man get his bearings before you start ribbing him,' Mr Anders pled on his behalf. Although he was the youngest in the house, Sherlock wasn't the shortest. A couple of the Removes where shorter than him so he didn't feel too intimidated. Sharing a house with fifteen other boys was a lot less daunting than sharing with another sixty-nine and having his own room was a huge bonus. He thought he was going to quite like being here and would probably be sad to leave, when his time was up.

At nine o'clock, Mr Anders rang the bell for Call Over and the boys all assembled in the Common Room. The House Master, Mr Russell appeared and introduced himself to Sherlock then had a chat with the boys about their weekends, gave out some important notices, reminded them all to make sure they had uniform and school things sorted out for the morning, then called the meeting to a close with Call Over. Mr Anders reminded Sherlock that Shell Lights Out still applied, even though he was the only one it applied to, and left him to sort out his bed. He was quite happy to go to bed at ten o'clock. It had been a pretty stressful weekend and, every time he thought about what he had said to his mother about Mycroft, his stomach turned over. He deeply regretted that little outburst and feared it would have far-reaching consequences but the cat was out of that particular bag and he could not put it back in. He would ring Mycroft tomorrow evening and try to apologise. That would be a very difficult conversation.

ooOoo


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Harrow School is a real place but all of the character and events depicted are entirely fictitious. I am just using Harrow as a location in which to ground the plot.**

**Chapter Twelve**

Sherlock was up bright and early next morning, did not have to queue for the bathroom and was in his uniform ready to leave, when the breakfast bell rang. It was so much quieter in this house. The other boys were up and about, too, thanks to Mr Anders, whose job it was to go round and knock on all the doors, reach inside and put on the lights. Nothing wakes up a teenage boy like a strong overhead light, he found. His mother had taught him that, actually, by using the technique herself, several years earlier. The Removes all waited in the lobby area until all their number were present, then went to breakfast en masse. One of the boys, Reeves, invited Sherlock to join them, so he tagged along. It actually felt rather nice to be part of a group, he thought. People didn't seem to stare as much, it was easier to blend into the background. Once in the Shepherd Churchill, the boys all queued for their breakfast at the servery, piling their trays high with cereal, Full English, toast, croissants and fruit juice before moving to their individual house tables. No one could say they were not well fed here. Sherlock tucked into his Full English as other boys from The Park arrived and acknowledged him with a nod or just ignored him. Breakfast over, it was back to houses to collect books and files for the morning's lessons then, this being Monday, off to Speech Room for whole school assembly. The working week had begun.

ooOoo

Having seen her boys out of the house for the morning, Reba went down to the Laundry Room to check in with the ladies. Monday was Laundry In day, when the boys' clean laundry was returned to the house and needed to be checked off and sorted into their laundry lockers, from whence they would collect it later in the day. Glenda was sitting at her sewing machine, as usual. Gemma, the Laundry Lady was unpacking the hampers containing the clean laundry, counting the numbers of each item – so many school shirts, so many boxers, so many white tee-shirts, so many coloured tee-shirts, and so on, and sorting them, with reference to the boys' name tapes, into the individual laundry lockers. There was a lot of laundry to unpack, for seventy boys, so this task would usually take the whole morning. Games kit was all washed in house, rather than being sent to the laundry, because of the turn-around time. The laundry took a week to be returned and the boys did Eccer almost every day, so needed their kit washed and ready to wear on a two day rotation.

Having said good morning and exchanged general pleasantries about their respective weekends, Reba got down to business.

'If you find anything for Holmes in the laundry, Gemma, could you put it in a basket and I'll take it over to him. He's going to be in the over-spill house for a few weeks,' she explained.

'Oh, dear,' Glenda said. 'Things still not going well for the poor lad?'

'Well, hopefully they will now,' Reba replied, not wishing to go into any more detail. As the women were talking, Beverley, another of the house ladies, arrived. She looked rather flustered, which was not that unusual for Bev. She was a single mum with three children of eleven, thirteen and fifteen. Her fifteen year old daughter was a bit of a madam and was always getting into bother of one sort or another.

'Everything all right, Bev?' Glenda asked.

'Oh, goodness me, no! I've had a terrible weekend,' Beverley replied. The other three women all looked concerned and waited for her to elaborate.

'Jimmy, my youngest, you remember me saying he was in that swimming gala?'

'Yes,' replied Glenda, 'You were really chuffed 'cos it was the National Championships, wasn't it?'

'Yes, it was. There were kids there from all over the country – Wales, Scotland, even Ireland, not just England. They had the heats on Saturday and then, yesterday, they had the finals. Anyway, it was all going lovely, til one of the boys had a fit in the water and drowned.'

'No!' Glenda exclaimed. 'Oh, how awful!'

'Oh, it was awful, Glenda, it really was. And his poor mum, she was beside herself. Imagine sitting there and seeing your child drown in a swimming gala? And he was ever such a good swimmer, too. Well, he'd have to be, wouldn't he, being in the National Championship finals? He'd won his heat the day before, beat this Irish boy by a whisker, he did. That's how he got into the final. That Irish boy, he wasn't too happy about being beaten by a whisker, I can tell you. He made such a fuss. But the other boy, he just laughed and told him to suck it up. Anyway, I bet that Irish boy feels bad now, 'cos the other boy's dead.'

The women all agreed that it had been a really tragic loss of a young life and then they all put it to the backs of their minds and went about the business of the day.

ooOoo

Sherlock's day had been going quite well until, on his way from Science to Maths, he had a run in with Custos. At first, when he heard a voice call,

'You, boy, come here,' he didn't realise it was him the voice was referring to so he kept walking but then an older boy tapped on his shoulder and said,

'He means you.' Sherlock turned to see Custos standing on the opposite pavement, looking straight at him. He crossed over the road and approached the man, wearing the grey trousers and tail coat, who was generally responsible for discipline but specifically responsible for enforcing uniform rules. Sherlock stopped in front of the man and said,

'Do you want me, sir?'

'Yes, lad, I do. What's your name?'

'It's Holmes, sir. Sherlock Holmes.'

'Well, Holmes Sherlock Holmes, how many buttons should you have on your bluer?'

'Er, three, sir, I think,' Sherlock replied.

'And how many do you have?' Sherlock looked down at his school jacket, known as a 'bluer' and saw, to his dismay, that it only had two buttons on it. He had noticed when he put it on that morning that the middle button was loose but he had not given it much thought. At some point during the morning, that loose button had fallen off. He looked back up at Custos.

'Sorry, sir, one seems to have fallen off,' he apologised.

'It does, doesn't it, the man replied, taking a pad of dockets from his jacket pocket.

'Do you know what this is, Holmes Sherlock Holmes?'

'Yes, sir,' replied Sherlock, 'It's a Custos Report.'

'Well done, Holmes Sherlock Holmes. Now, you need to go and get your button sorted and report to me by 07.40 tomorrow – that's before breakfast – for a uniform inspection. Do you understand?'

'Yes, sir,' Sherlock replied, taking the docket from the man and putting it in his pocket.

'Right. Off you go, Holmes Sherlock Holmes.' Sherlock scuttled off to his next lesson, praying not to be late, as that would incur a further infringement of the rules, which could mean getting Double, which was what Harrovians called lines.

Sherlock could hardly wait until morning break. He rushed back to The Park and straight to the Laundry Room. Since the ladies could not work in the boys' rooms whilst they were in them, they took their mid-morning break at the same time as the boys, so, when Sherlock arrived at the Laundry Room, he found all six ladies sitting round the table having their tea break. He stopped at the door, reluctant to walk in and disturb them, but Glenda saw him and called,

'What's the matter, Sherlock? Did you want something?' He shuffled into the room and explained about his missing button and his Custos Report.

'Oh, come on in, dearie. Take your bluer off, I'll have that done in a minute.' Sherlock walked right inside the laundry room and, taking off his jacket, gave it to Glenda. She stood and opened a cupboard behind her, taking out a box full of buttons which also contained a reel of blue thread and a needle. She sat back down at the table and began to sew on a new button. The other ladies continued their conversation, which was about the tragedy at the swimming gala. Beverley brought the other ladies, who had not been present first thing, up to speed about what had happened, then went on.

'Well, his poor mother, she was obviously distraught, wasn't she? After the ambulance men had pretty much given up trying to resuscitate him, they had to put him in the ambulance and someone went to get his stuff from his locker, to go with him and his mum just kept saying, 'Where are his trainers? He needs his trainers. He loves those trainers', like she couldn't quite take it in that he was dead.'

'Well, I suppose something like that, it's such a shock, isn't it? I expect it takes different people in different ways,' Lynn commented.

'Anyway, they went back and checked but they had to tell her that his trainers just weren't in his locker or anywhere in the changing room and, in the end, they had to practically drag her out of the place, cos she was hysterical.' The ladies all agreed that it was a terrible tragedy and that they had every sympathy with the poor woman whose child had died so suddenly. Glenda finished sewing on Sherlock's button and held his jacket out to him. He was staring at Beverley, with a puzzled expression on his face. Glenda had to tap him on his arm to get his attention.

'Where were you, dearie? Away with the fairies? Here's your bluer, lovely, all mended.' Sherlock thanked her profusely for fixing his jacket and left but his head was full of the story of the boy who drowned in the swimming pool and his missing trainers.

ooOoo

That evening, after supper but before Prep, Sherlock sat down in the inner lobby at Gayton, to read his newspaper. It was still being delivered to The Park but he had collected it from his pigeon hole. He was sitting in the lobby because, strangely, he rather liked being where the other boys were, even though he was not joining in their conversations or their game of snooker. He found it quite pleasant.

He leafed through the paper, until he found the report about the drowned boy, and read it carefully. It explained all about the National School Swimming Championships and about the boy who won his place in the final by the narrowest of margins, much to the disappointment of the runner-up. It then went on to describe how the boy, who had no known history of epilepsy or any kind of seizures, had had a fit, in the pool and, before anyone realised what was happening, had sadly drowned. It went on to describe the efforts made to resuscitate him and the distress of his mother but it never mentioned his missing trainers. The statement made by the organiser of the gala, at the end of the report, was that this had been a tragic but unavoidable accident and that their sympathies were with the bereaved family of the dead boy. Sherlock read it through three times. There was something bothering him and it was the missing shoes. As he was sitting, musing on this, Mr Anders came by.

'Hello, Holmes, how was your day?' Sherlock jumped to his feet, reached into his pocket and took out the Custos Report. He showed it to Mr Anders.

'Oh, dear, what was this for?' the tutor asked. Sherlock explained about his missing button but also showed that he had had a new one sewn on.

'Well, that's alright then. You turn up tomorrow, show Custos your new button and that will be the end of it,' Mr Anders explained, cheerfully.

'Yes, sir,' said Sherlock, with a furrowed brow.

'So is something else the matter?' the tutor asked.

'It's just this boy, sir, Carl Powers.' Sherlock showed the newspaper article to the man.

'It says it was a tragic accident but I don't think it was an accident at all,' Sherlock stated, with conviction.

'What makes you think that?' asked Mr Anders, intrigued.

'They couldn't find his shoes, his trainers. All his things were in his locker except his trainers. His mother said he loved the trainers. She made a fuss but they could not be found,' Sherlock explained. Mr Anders had been reading the article.

'How do you know that, Sherlock? It doesn't say anything about his trainers in here.'

'No, but one of the ladies from The Park, her son was in the gala and she was there. I heard her telling the other ladies abut it this morning, while my button was being sewn on.'

Mr Anders was curious to know why this strange, enigmatic child was so concerned about this news story about a boy he didn't even know.

'Why is this important to you, Sherlock? Why do you care so much? I mean, I know it's sad that the boy died, I can understand you would care about that but…'

'No, sir, it's not because he died. It's because it's a puzzle. It doesn't make sense. It doesn't make sense.'

Sherlock had a faraway look in his eyes that Mr Anders found a bit disturbing. He knew that Mr Wilson thought the boy was paranoid. Did his paranoia apply not just to himself but to others, also? Buri Anders had read Reba Everett's report. She had made no mention of any paranoid delusions but she was a trained psychologist so she would know about such things. Buri decided he should talk to Reba about this as soon as possible. In the meanwhile, he tried to make light of it by saying that, if there had been anything untoward about the boy's death, he was sure the police would sort it out.

'Yes,' replied Sherlock, 'I expect they will,' and smiled at the tutor, who hoped that would be an end to the matter. The Prep bell rang, Call Over was made and the boys all went off to their rooms to do their Prep.

ooOoo


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Harrow School is a real place but all of the character and events depicted are entirely fictitious. I am just using Harrow as a location in which to ground the plot.**

**Chapter Thirteen**

Buri didn't have to wait long to have his chat with Reba. She arrived in house just after Prep began, with a basket of laundry for Sherlock. Buri was in the Tutors' Study, handing over responsibility for the house to the Duty Tutor, who had been delayed in arriving. Reba asked if she could take the laundry up to Sherlock and Buri said he would take her up there. On the way, he asked if she was free to have a chat. She said she was, as it was her day off the next day, and was officially 'Off Duty', now that Prep had begun. He invited her to come up to his flat, after she had seen Sherlock, then he went up, himself.

She tapped at Sherlock's room door, pushed it open and found him sitting at his desk, working. She noticed that he had unpacked his trunk and wondered whether his storage arrangement was as haphazard as it had been on the first day. Almost as though he read her mind, Sherlock got up and opened his wardrobe door. All his clothes were neatly hung on hangers or placed, folded, on the shelves.

'I know how to do it now, Matron,' he said, with a smile. She smiled back.

'Yes, you are a quick study, Sherlock. Well, here are some more for you to practice on.' She took the clothes out of the basket and put them in a pile on the bottom of his bed.

'Is everything OK? Have you settled in alright?' she asked.

'Yes, thank you, Matron. I like it here. The other boys are friendly. They invited me to go to breakfast this morning. I think I'll be quite sad when I have to leave,' he confessed.

'Well, hopefully, by the time you do have to leave, you'll feel better about it. Anyway, I'm disturbing your Prep time. Good night, Sherlock. I'll see you tomorrow.' She left him to his studies and took the stairs up to the Resident Tutor's flat, on the top floor. She was amused to see two bicycles hanging over the banister, suspended above the stair well. Buri, hearing her footsteps on the stairs, came out onto the landing to welcome her to his home.

'I like your customised bike rack,' she commented.

'Yes, it's rather neat, isn't it? It keeps them out of the way. Space is at a premium here,' he replied. He invited her into his sitting room, which was small but adequate for a single occupant. It contained a sofa and an arm chair. The walls were lined with shelves which held lots of art books and also quite a few pieces of pottery, his own work, she imagined. There was a large floor lamp, which cast a warm glow over everything and a large sash window which looked out on a panoramic view of North London. Harrow Hill was the highest point in the landscape in this part of the capital and Gayton was positioned almost at the top of the hill so it afforded truly spectacular views, especially now, in the dark, with all the lights of the city arrayed below. Reba stood at the window, admiring the view, whilst he went to the tiny kitchen, to pour them a glass of wine each. When he returned, they sat down to chat.

'I had a strange conversation with Holmes this evening, which I really wanted to discuss with you,' Buri began. Reba listened with increasing interest as he described the business of the boy who drowned in the pool.

'So, I was wondering what you made of all this. I mean, do you agree with George Wilson, about the boy being paranoid? Do you think this could be evidence of that?' he asked. Reba thought about what he had told her then said,

'I have never thought he was paranoid. He had good reason to be wary of Morris. I think the boy is a bit of a bully. Sherlock may have been his primary target but I have the feeling that a number of the other Shells are afraid of him. He likes to throw his weight about, in more ways than one. This story of the boy in the swimming pool, I'm not sure why he finds it so intriguing. I heard one of my ladies talking about it this morning, in house, and it was a very shocking story. Perhaps it's the suddenness of the death that has made an impression on him, I don't know. You say he said it was a puzzle, that it didn't make sense. He does have a very logical mind – he sees things in a way which most people don't, you know, really cuts through to the heart of the matter. Like just now, for example, when I took his clothes into his room. It was as though he knew what I was thinking but I'm sure he just noted my behaviour – looking round his room – and worked out that I was wondering how well he had managed his unpacking and storing of his stuff. But he worked it out really quickly. And he was absolutely right.'

Buri was fascinated by her analysis of the boy's behaviour. She went on.

'I can see why the boy's missing shoes would interest him. He obviously was wearing shoes when he arrived but, after he died, they were missing. Now, you or I would probably conclude that someone took a fancy to those trainers and, in all the furore following the death, managed to spirit them away, either to wear themselves or to sell. Designer trainers are very saleable, as you probably know. I mean, we've had boys mugged in the town for their trainers. For some reason, Sherlock has either over-looked that possibility or dismissed it. Frankly, I would be surprised if it were the former but, if it were the latter, I would be fascinated to know why.'

Again, Buri was impressed with the detail in her analysis.

'Do you mind if I ask you something?' he asked.

'Not at all,' she replied, taking a sip of the very pleasant wine and wondering what it was.

'What is a person with your qualifications, knowledge and experience doing working as a matron?' He saw her raise her eyebrows and quickly added,

'Not that I don't appreciate what a marvellous job you matrons do – I mean, really, you are the bedrock of the school. The place would fall apart without you and your colleagues. I do not subscribe to the 'just a matron' mantra. But, you are not exactly the usual kind of person who works as a matron, are you?'

'OK, I have to concede that but many of my colleagues who have little in the way of paper qualifications bring a lot of practical skills to the table, you know. They have people skills, they are great organisers, they can spin lots of plates at the same time, which is really what this job is all about. You have to be able to keep all the plates spinning.' She paused there, momentarily, then went on,

'But you asked about me. I had been working abroad – in America, actually – and I came back to the UK. I had nowhere to live and no money to buy anywhere. I was, literally, sleeping on friends' sofas, so I needed a job with accommodation. I happened to see this post advertised, I applied for it and I got it, simple as that. I intended to do it for a year or two, whilst I saved up enough for a deposit on a house, but I really like doing it so I'm still here. I love working with the boys. Every day is different, you never know what they are going to present you with next. Teenagers are actually a lot of fun to work with, if you can resist the impulse to strangle them. I do prefer boys to girls, I have to say. Girls, in my experience, do bear a grudge. They can sulk for England. Boys, on the other hand, tend to just punch one another, then it's all forgotten. They are much less complicated, in my opinion.'

'I have to say, even though I am speaking of my own gender here, that I have to agree with you,' Buri admitted. 'I taught at a mixed Comprehensive for a year before I came here and I found the girls terrifying! You know that song, by the Police, 'Don't stand so close to me'? I had that song running through my head the whole time. Those girls would flutter their eye lashes at me and I would be thinking 'Help!' That's why I grew the beard, so I would look older. When I first went there, even some of the older teachers thought I was one of the pupils! I was told off once for coming to school out of uniform! Anyway, I was very relieved to get this post, at a single sex school.'

They continued chatting until the end of Prep bell rang, when Reba thanked him for the wine and the conversation and they both agreed that they would keep an eye on Holmes, to see if he continued to be overly interested in the case of the drowned school boy. They said goodnight and Reba picked up her laundry basket and returned to her own house and an early night. That was the real joy of a day off, she thought. One could go to bed early and get up late, just for one night a week.

ooOoo

Prep over, Sherlock knew he could not put off speaking to his brother. He owed it to him to own up to what he had done, to apologise and hope he would understand and perhaps forgive. The card phone was on the landing, just outside Sherlock's room. He took out his phone card and opened his door to see Mitchell, one of the Fifth Years, already engaged in a call. Mitchell looked at Sherlock, saw the card in his hand and, covering the receiver, said,

'I won't be long. I'll knock on your door when I'm done.' Sherlock retreated back to his bed. He could hear murmuring from Mitchell but not what he was saying but he knew what the gist of the conversation would be. He had heard the other boys talking about Mitchell's situation. His mother had been diagnosed, earlier in the year, with a potentially terminal illness and the boy was finding it hard to cope with being away from home at this difficult time. But he was in his GCSE year and his parents didn't want him to jeopardise his future by changing schools at such a crucial point in his education, so the school had moved him to Gayton, so that he could have more support to get through this current crisis. Definitely a naughty boy then, Sherlock thought, recalling his mother's condemnation of the residents of this unique house. After about five minutes, Sherlock noted that the murmured conversation had stopped and then he heard a knock and Mitchell put his head round the door.

'All yours, Holmes,' Mitchell said. Sherlock thanked him and went to the phone. He dialled the number for Mycroft's Hall of Residence and waited for it to be picked up. This eventually happened, after about a dozen rings. People often ignored this phone, if they didn't want the bother of finding the person for whom it was intended. He asked the accommodating person if he could speak to Mycroft Holmes and they went off in search. Sherlock watched the credit tick down on his card, as he waited, but at last he heard Mycroft's voice.

'What do you want, you little snitch?'

'Oh, Mummy has spoken to you, has she?' Sherlock asked.

'Whatever you have to say, just say it. I'm right in the middle of something,' his brother snapped.

'Look, I'm really sorry, Mycroft. I didn't mean to get you into trouble but my house master asked me if you had given me something and I thought he must know about the violin, somehow.'

'Oh, you little moron, he obviously thought I'd given you drugs. Why didn't you just say no and let them search your room?'

'I didn't think, I'm sorry,' Sherlock apologised again.

'No, you didn't, did you. I find it hard to believe you really are my brother sometimes, you halfwit. Look, just don't ever expect me to do you any favours ever again, alright? And just forget this number, too. Don't call me again.' Mycroft hung up. Well, that could have gone better, Sherlock thought, hanging up the phone and returning to his room. There was only one thing that could make him feel less wretched, so he picked up his violin case, put it on his bed and began his preparations to play.

After the end of Prep, the boys of Gayton usually assembled in the Common Room, to watch TV, or in the inner lobby, to chat or play snooker on the half-sized table. This evening, four of the Removes were playing a doubles match of Snooker whilst others looked on, offering advice and ridicule, in equal measures, when Reeves suddenly yelled,

'Hey, guys, shut up, will you?' holding his hands up to the rest of the group. They all stopped talking, wondering why, then they heard what he had heard, floating down the staircase from the first floor. It was the most exquisite sound of violin music. They all listened, enthralled.

'Is that a record playing?' one of them asked.

'No, I don't think so. I think it's Holmes,' Reeves replied. He walked half way up the stair case and listened again, then nodded and, beckoning the others to follow, he continued up the stairs to the landing, outside Sherlock's room. The others all followed, gathering on the landing, listening at the door.

'Bloody hell, he's fucking good, isn't he?' one of the boys whispered.

'Yes, he is, Rathnall, and do you think you could try learning a few adjectives that don't begin with 'f'?' came Mr Anders voice from the bottom of the stairs that led up to his flat. He, too, had heard Sherlock playing and been drawn down to the landing to hear more clearly.

Sherlock was playing one of his favourite pieces, Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in Em, the second movement, again. He liked second movements, preferring the slow, sensuous nature of the adagio. He could play the whole piece, if required, but, as he was no longer taking lessons or performing, he only needed to please himself. Having finished the Mendelssohn, he then played Bach's Partita No 2 in Dm, the piece that Reba Everett had been so taken with, although she couldn't remember its name. Much faster and more technically demanding than the previous piece, but delicious in the way the notes flowed, like a stream, running over stones, down a gentle incline. He then finished with Bach's Sarabande in Dm, which was one of his absolute favourites. These pieces in the minor keys suited his mood, but were quite cathartic, enabling him to work through his negative feelings and become more resolved. As the last, long note of the Sarabande drew to a close, a burst of spontaneous applause erupted on the landing. Sherlock was startled and stood frozen to the spot, the bow poised in the middle of its arc of descent to his side. There was knock at the door, then it was pushed open and Mr Anders stood on the threshold, with a gaggle of Removes behind him, all clapping like crazy. Sherlock dropped his hands and stood, feeling self-conscious and slightly embarrassed by all the attention. Then, because they were all still clapping and he didn't know what else to do, he bowed then stood up, grinning. He definitely liked this house better, he thought.

ooOoo


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Harrow School is a real place but all of the character and events depicted are entirely fictitious. I am just using Harrow as a location in which to ground the plot.**

**Chapter Fourteen**

Next morning, Sherlock was up and dressed extra early to keep his appointment with Custos. He came down into the inner lobby to find Reeves already there ahead of him.

'Morning, maestro!' Reeves quipped. 'You're up early. What's the occasion?' Sherlock showed him the Custos Report.

'Well, snap!' Reeves said, pulling a docket from his pocket, too. 'Mine's for not having my top button fastened – mainly because my shirt was just too small. So, I had to go to the school shop yesterday and pick up a couple of larger shirts, hence my look of sartorial elegance this morning!' he concluded, standing up and doing a twirl on the carpet.

'Come on, then, Holmes, let's get it over with and then we can be first in to breakfast.' Sherlock and Reeves left the house together.

ooOoo

At lunch time, Sherlock returned to The Park and checked his pigeon hole for his newspaper. As he pulled it out, something else fell out also. It was a letter and he recognised his mother's hand writing. Oh, god, he thought, what have I done now? It was so unlikely that she would write about anything good, this was his default response. Finding a seat in Reader, he opened the envelope, feeling nothing but trepidation. He read:

'Dearest Sherlock

I have spoken to Mycroft and it seems you were correct in what you told me, about your violin. I am surprised that he defied your father in this way but he is such a kind-hearted boy, I suppose I should not be.

Your father has returned from his diplomatic mission and has received a letter from your house master, requesting that you be allowed to keep your violin as you seem upset not to have it. Your father has agreed that you can keep it, provisionally, until half term as long as it does not interfere with your studies. Your house master seems to think it will not. I hope he is correct.

Your father is disappointed that you had to be moved to this other house and hopes that you will learn your lesson and behave better when they allow you to return to your own house.

I am going to be in London at the weekend so I thought I might take you to tea on Sunday, if nothing urgent comes up. I have written to your house master to inform him, since that matron woman seems to insist on everything being in writing.

Be ready at four o'clock on Sunday. I will collect you from your new house.

Regards

Mummy'

Sherlock was very surprised. This was excellent news! He folded the letter and pushed it into his jacket pocket, feeling a whole new level of respect for Miss Everett, too. Anyone who could get his mother to toe the line when it came to conventions, deserved respect, in his book. He wondered whether Matron knew what a rare achievement that was, then turned to his newspaper, looking for further information about the swimming pool drowning. What he found was a follow-up report which stated that an inquest had been scheduled for a week on Thursday, at the Coroner's Court but that the police were treating this as an accident and were not looking for any third party in connection with the death. Sherlock was horrified. How could they be so stupid? He had to do something about this. He looked again at the report and saw that the officer leading the 'enquiry' (What enquiry, he thought?) was a DI Wignall, of the local police division. He noted the name of the swimming pool, then went to Matron's surgery. She was writing in her Day Book, having just treated one of the boys, noting down the treatment she had administered. He stood in the doorway, waiting patiently for her to finish what she was doing. She sensed his presence and murmured that she would not be a moment, then, having finished her recording, she closed the book and looked up.

'Oh, hello, Sherlock. What can I do for you?' she asked, with a smile.

'I was wondering if you had an 'A to Z' that I could borrow, Matron,' he asked.

'Why yes, I do, actually,' she replied, turning to the book shelf behind her, taking out a blue and white paperback and handing it to him.

He thanked her and promised to return it as soon as he had finished with it. He returned to Reader and looked up the name of the pool in the appendix. It gave the address, which he committed to memory, and looked up the street reference in the back of the book. He then found the right page, and, using the map reference, found the location. He then looked around the page for the nearest marked police station. He committed this address to memory, also. He looked around the location of the police station for the nearest tube or railway station, noting that as well. Closing the book and turning to the back cover, he looked up the tube station and noted that it was on the Metropolitan line. That was good news, as Harrow was also on that line, so it would be fairly straight-forward to get there, without having to change trains.

ooOoo

Thursday afternoons were dedicated to Activities. Sherlock had opted to help out at a local charity shop, which usually involved sorting through donated items, separating stuff that could be resold from things that needed to be binned. It was a rather unpleasant job but, if there was not much stuff to be sorted, it usually meant one could leave after a relatively short time. The last couple of weeks, Sherlock had been done and dusted after about half an hour, so he hoped that this Thursday would be no exception. He could then hop on the tube and be there and back to the police station before he was even missed. As it was, luck was in deed on his side, as there was a relatively small collection of items to be sorted and, just forty minutes after arriving at the shop, Sherlock was sitting on a tube train, heading into town.

He stepped off the train at the correct station, went through the turnstiles and found himself out on the street. He looked up and down to get his bearings, then, recognising the street names from the A to Z map, he set off along the road, turning left and right until he pitched up outside the police station. He walked in, through the main entrance and approached the reception desk. He had never been inside a police station before but was mildly surprised at how closely this one resembled ones he had seen on the TV. It looked typically Victorian in design, with dark wood panels and a chunky counter that he could only just see over, even though he was tall for his age. The officer behind the counter was either abnormally tall or was standing on some sort of plinth. Sherlock suspected the latter. The man looked at him as he approached the front desk and asked him what he wanted.

'Could I speak to DI Wignall, please?' Sherlock asked.

'Maybe,' the officer replied. 'What would that be about, sonny?' Sherlock thought carefully before answering.

'I'd rather discuss that with DI Wignall, if you don't mind,' he replied. The policeman raised his eyebrows at this but, smiling to himself, he picked up a telephone and dialled a four digit number. After a while, the call must have been answered because the officer said,

Er, DI Wignall? Oh, OK. Well, there's a young man at the front desk who has something to discuss with the DI.' After a short pause, he went on,

'Ok, I'll tell him to wait.' The man hung up the phone than directed Sherlock to some chairs against the right hand wall and invited him to sit and wait, which he did. Sherlock spent the time reading the notices on the Police notice board, which included a list of Britain's ten Most Wanted,showing photographs of the nine men and one woman, that Sherlock set about committing to memory, just in case he ever saw one of them. After about ten minutes, a youngish man in plain clothes came into the reception area and the desk sergeant indicated Sherlock. As the man approached, Sherlock stood up and offered his hand to shake, which the man did, with an amused smirk. He then invited Sherlock to follow him and took him through a security door into the backroom area of the station. After walking down a corridor, up a staircase and along another corridor, they came to a door that led into an office. The man pointed to a chair and invited him to sit down. Once they were both seated, on opposite sides of a cluttered desk, the officer introduced himself.

'I'm DS Walters. I work with DI Wignall. Who are you and what can I do for you?' he asked.

'My name is Sherlock Holmes and I've been reading about Carl Powers in the newspaper. The reporter wrote that his death was an accident but I don't think it was,' Sherlock explained, earnestly. The police detective looked a bit nonplussed and asked him how old he was.

'I'm thirteen,' he replied, wondering why that should be of importance.

'Do your parents know you're here?' the policeman asked.

'No, sir, they don't. But I may explain why I believe the death wasn't an accident?' he pleaded, seeing that he was pretty much fighting a losing battle.

'OK, Poirot, let's hear your theory,' the officer chuckled. Sherlock chose to ignore the ridicule and launched into his account.

'Carl Powers had no history of seizures but he had a seizure in the water. That is suspicious, for a start. He won his heat by a small margin the day before and the runner-up was most put out, so there is motive. All his clothes were in his locker, except for his trainers. He obviously arrived in shoes but they could not be found. Where are the trainers? Who took them and why did they take them? Were they a trophy or would they have been incriminating? Did they give away the cause of death? Who had access to the changing room? Who had access to the trainers?' Sherlock completed his presentation and then sat back, waiting for the officer's response.

'You really have thought about this, haven't you, sonny?' he commented.

'Yes, sir, I have. It seems pretty obvious to me that there is a mystery here,' Sherlock explained.

'Well, young man, if this is a school project, then I should say you've passed with flying colours but we police are pretty good at deciding what is suspicious and what isn't and we don't think this is a suspicious death. As for the shoes, there was nothing about his shoes in the papers, so how did you know about them?' he asked, looking suspiciously at Sherlock.

'One of the cleaners in my house was at the gala with her son. She saw the boy drown and heard his mother making a fuss about the trainers,' Sherlock explained, beginning to resent the patronising attitude of this man.

'Hmm, maybe your cleaner took the trainers, have you thought of that?' the man joked. Sherlock fixed him with a withering look.

'If the cleaner did take the trainers, she would hardly draw attention to the fact by talking about their disappearance, I would have thought. Also, just because she is a woman of meagre means, it is rather unfair to assume she is a member of the criminal classes. I find that a little judgemental of you,' Sherlock replied, 'if not downright bigoted.'

The policeman's demeanour changed immediately.

'Well, sonny, I have been very patient with you up til now but I don't take kindly to being called a bigot. And how come you aren't at school, eh? It's only half past two. School isn't out yet, is it?' the man retorted, trying to undermine his position, Sherlock thought.

'Mine is. Thursday afternoon is Activities and I've already done mine,' he stated, omitting the fact that, as a Shell, he was not actually permitted to be 'off the Hill'. Only Upper Sixth were allowed to leave the Hill and, even then, only on a Sunday. Sherlock could see that he was wasting his time here. This man was dismissing him as 'just a kid' so he decided he might as well leave. He stood up.

'Well, thank you for your time, officer. I will let you get on with your work,' Sherlock offered his hand to DS Walters but, unfortunately, his use of the word 'bigoted' was still having repercussions.

'Not so fast, Sonny Jim. If your parents don't know you're here, who does?' the policeman asked. Sherlock knew he was busted.

'No one knows I'm here. I didn't tell anyone I was coming,' he admitted.

'Oh, really?' the policeman sat back, looking very self-satisfied.

ooOoo


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Harrow School is a real place but all of the characters and events depicted are entirely fictitious. I am just using Harrow as a location in which to ground the plot.**

**Chapter Fifteen**

When Buri Anders walked into the reception area of the police station and approached the front desk, the desk sergeant asked him his business so he explained, and showed his school ID card, which stated his name and that he was employed at Harrow School. A full face photograph confirmed his identity. The desk sergeant picked up the desk phone and advised DS Walters that Buri had arrived. After a very short interval, DS Walters came into the front office and introduced himself to the teacher, then took him through to the private side of the police station. Sherlock was sitting on a chair, in a small waiting area, looking rather apprehensive.

When he saw Buri, he rolled his eyes and stood up, feeling just a little sheepish. He was glad it was Mr Anders and not Mr Wilson but, all the same, he knew he was in for it. DS Walters was explaining how 'this young whipper-snapper' thought he knew better than all the 'highly trained' officers and asking Mr Anders why 'that posh school' didn't have better control of the 'snotty little brats' who went there. Mr Anders was being quite diplomatic but did point out, at that stage, that , out of eight hundred pupils currently enrolled, only one was at this moment AWOL and that one, in the boy's own (possibly misguided) opinion, was 'trying to right a terrible wrong' and not, as he could have been, 'mugging old ladies in a shopping centre'. This comparison did not go down well with DS Walters, who then decided that it was little wonder the pupils were so 'up themselves' if the staff took 'that attitude'. Eventually, the DS gave Buri permission to escort Sherlock off the premises, with the suggestion that he 'keep a closer eye on the little tosser' in the future. Mr Anders thanked the officer for his time, then he and Sherlock left. Walking back toward the tube station, Sherlock kept glancing sideways at his escort, trying to read what was going through his mind but he was not getting much back. Mr Anders was very good at keeping his facial expression neutral and so was keeping his thoughts well to himself. They had reached the tube station and were down on the platform before Buri turned to Sherlock and said,

'What exactly did you hope to achieve by going there, today, Sherlock?' This approach rather threw the boy. He wasn't accustomed to having the right to reply. But he soon recovered.

'I just wanted them to consider the possibility that this was not as straight forward as they seem to think it is. They've reached a conclusion based on some of the facts and they've dismissed those facts that don't fit with their conclusion. To me, that seems the wrong way to go about it. If they considered all the facts, they might not have an answer but at least they wouldn't have the wrong answer.' He then went on to tell the beak what he had told the DS, about the means, motive and opportunity to commit a murder in front of a swimming pool full of people. He was so earnest in the way he spoke that Buri could not help but sympathise with his point of view.

'I think you might have hit the nail on the head, there, Sherlock. They will be drawn to the conclusion that it was an accident because the alternative would probably be the perfect crime – one that could not possibly be solved,' Buri had to admit.

'But if they concentrated on finding the trainers, I think they could solve it. The trainers are the key, I'm sure of it,' Sherlock insisted.

Buri looked at him lost for words momentarily, but then he smiled and shook his head,

'What do you want to do when you grow up, Sherlock?' he asked.

'Oh, I don't know,' the boy replied. 'My father would like me to join the diplomatic corps but, to be honest, I don't really fancy the idea. I don't think diplomacy is really my area.'

'I think that Detective Sergeant would probably agree with you there,' Buri smiled. 'What about being a detective? You seem to have a bit of a gift for it,' he added.

'Oh, God, no! I could never work for the police! Not if I had to ignore the obvious just to keep my clear-up rates in the black!' Sherlock sounded quite appalled.

'Well, you could be a private detective, like Dick Tracey or Magnum P.I.,' Buri joked.

'Hmm,' Sherlock replied, 'I hadn't thought of that. I don't think Hawiian shirts and big moustaches are really my style but the trench coat and fedora look is quite appealing.'

Just then the train arrived and they got on. It was the beginning of the rush hour so the train was quite full so they did not get the chance to continue their conversation until they alighted at Harrow Hill station. As they walked back up the Hill, Sherlock asked,

'Am I going to be in a lot of trouble for this?'

Buri looked at him.

'Well, you did go 'off the Hill' so you will have to be gated for a week but I think that will suffice. I'll put in a good word for you but, Sherlock, you must promise me that you won't go AWOL again,' Buri entreated him. Sherlock looked rather guilty.

'What?' asked Buri.

'I really would like to go to the Inquest, sir. I am sort of hoping that the Coroner will see sense and order the police to investigate it as a suspicious death,' explained Sherlock. Buri shook his head again, in mild exasperation.

'I really would not advise you did that, Sherlock. For one thing, you would probably be rusticated if you went 'off the Hill' again, and, for another thing, I don't think you should keep involving yourself in this boy's death. People might think it's a bit weird,' Buri said, as kindly as possible.

'People already think I'm weird, sir, so I've nothing to lose, there,' Sherlock replied, sardonically. Buri pursed his lips and ruffled the boy's hair.

'You certainly are unique, Mr Holmes. I've never met anyone like you, for sure.'

ooOoo

Sherlock was called to Mr Russell's study after Call Over, that evening, and given a good telling off for going 'off the Hill' and for ending up in a police station, even though he had gone there, as it were, as a good citizen rather than as a felon, and he was gated for a week. He ventured to ask the Gayton HSM whether this would affect his visit from his mother at the weekend. Mr Russell explained that, unfortunately, it would. He would have to tell Sherlock's mother that she could visit him in the house but he would not be allowed to accompany her to the tea shop. Sherlock was fairly sure that his mother would cancel her visit, since seeing him without the added incentive of a cream tea would probably not be sufficient inducement for her to make the journey, not to mention the fact that she would be furious that he had broken the rules again. He asked himself whether he was upset about that and he had to conclude he probably wasn't. Needless to say, his assessment of the situation was accurate and his mother cancelled her visit.

ooOoo

The next week passed without event. Sherlock spent his days in lessons, his lunch times sitting in Reader, reading his newspaper, and his evenings and most of the weekend in Gayton, doing Prep, playing his violin and sitting in the Common Room or the inner lobby, listening to the other boys' banter, enjoying being part of the group but not really joining in. He found it hard to understand some of the innuendo in the boys' quick fire jocularity. He knew that what they were saying was funny but he often did not get the joke and he didn't like to ask anyone to explain it. So he just listened, then thought about it afterwards and, sometimes, after considerable analysis, he would see the connection and 'get it'. He wondered whether he would ever be able to keep up with that kind of 'off the cuff' humour. He rather thought not. His brain didn't really work like that.

There was no further mention of Carl Powers in the newspaper but, as the day of the Inquest drew closer, Sherlock could not escape the realisation that, no matter what the consequences, he had to go to the Coroner's Court and hear what was given in evidence. He knew he was letting down a lot of people by doing this – not least of these being Miss Everett and Mr Anders, who had both spoken up on his behalf, but he felt he owed it to Carl Powers to make sure that his death was at least recognised for what it was – murder. He said nothing to anyone about his intension to go AWOL again. He just planned his mission.

He needed to find out, firstly, what time the Inquest was to start and. secondly, where it was to be held. He went to the phone booth on the High Street and looked up 'Coroner's Court' in the phone book. He found there were several but the one for the location of the pool was in Haringey, so he noted down the address, then he put in his phone card and dialled the number. He had decided that they probably would not give the information to a child, as adults persisted in thinking him to be, so, since his voice had not yet broken, he decided to impersonate his mother. Actually, he was quite an accomplished mimic, having a good ear for pitch, tone and inflection and he had impersonated his mother on many occasions, for various reasons, at Prep school. When the person answered at the other end, he launched into his best Mrs Holmes.

'Ah, good afternoon,' he drawled, in that terribly bored manner his mother adopted when speaking to people she deemed beneath her and unworthy of her notice.

'I am enquiring as the scheduled time of the Inquest into the death of Carl Powers. Would you be so kind?'

'Why, of course, madam,' came the response from the other end of the line. 'Let me just check the listing. Ah, yes, here we are. It is scheduled to begin at ten a.m. on Thursday morning but, I would advise you to ring again on Wednesday afternoon, just in case the preceding case runs over and we have to reschedule.'

'Ah, thank you, most kind,' Sherlock purred, and hung up the phone.

Next, he needed to find out how to get to the court. He couldn't borrow Matron's A to Z again, as she would know immediately that he was planning to abscond once more, so he went to the paper shop and bought a copy. It would be a useful resource on other occasions, he thought, so was a good investment for relatively small outlay. He smuggled it back into house and hid it in the cupboard under his bed until after Prep that evening. Then he looked up the address and found the relevant map. It was not going to be a straight forward journey. He would need to take the Metropolitan Line to Finchley Road, then the Jubilee Line to West Hampstead, walk from there to the Thameslink station and take a train to Kentish Town. From there, the Northern Line would take him to High Barnet and, then he would be able to walk to the Court in Wood Street. The toughest part was that, in order to arrive by ten a.m., he would need to be at the station, ticket in hand, by twenty past eight in the morning. Call Over was usually held at eight fifteen. He would need to think of a reason to leave early. He thought he could manage that.

The next problem was his appearance. He would have to leave the house in his school uniform but he could not go 'off the Hill' in his Harrow dress as he would be far too conspicuous so he would need to get changed somehow and somewhere. From early in the morning, Custos was active on the streets of Harrow-on-the-Hill, on the lookout for uniform violations, late comers and other miscreants. He would have to be clever to avoid him. But, again, he had a plan. On Wednesday afternoon, he rang the Court again and was advised that everything was running to schedule so the Carl Powers' inquest would begin at ten the next morning. Everything was set. He just had to wait until the morning, to put his plans into action.

ooOoo


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Harrow School is a real place but all of the characters and events depicted are entirely fictitious. I am just using Harrow as a location in which to ground the plot.**

**Chapter Sixteen**

It was seven forty-five, Thursday morning and Sherlock sat in Shepherd Churchill, at The Park house table, picking at his breakfast and waiting for the perfect moment to act. The dining room was about half full, his table reflected this statistic, and the duty tutor was chatting to some of the older boys. Sherlock judged this to be the optimum moment. Pushing his chair, violently, away from the table, he stood, blanched and vomited into his Full English. The reaction was instantaneous. All the boys on his and the surrounding tables jumped to their feet, utterly revolted by the spectacle of someone regurgitating semi-digested food at the breakfast table. The duty tutor reacted quickly, coming to Sherlock's aid.

'Holmes, oh dear, you're clearly not well!' the beak declared, putting a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

'No, sir, I don't feel well at all. I think I need to go to the San,' Sherlock replied, weakly. One of the serving staff had clocked the nature of the disturbance and was approaching the table with a bucket of cleaning materials.

'Let me take you there,' the duty tutor insisted.

'No, sir, really, I'll be fine. I can go there myself,' Sherlock insisted, turned and fled from the hall, leaving the beak to deal with the chaos of a room full of retching boys, all traumatised by Sherlock's party trick.

Once outside, Sherlock crossed the High Street and ran along the pavement, passed the school shop and the top of the One Hundred Steps, ducking down Church Street. Still running, he came to St Mary's Church and turned into the church yard. He prayed that his plan, which so far had worked perfectly, would continue to go his way. Diving into the bushes, in the wilder part of the church yard, he rummaged under a fallen headstone and found his sports bag, secreted there the day before. He pulled it out and quickly stripped off his uniform, put on his 'smart-casual' jeans, shirt and jacket, rolled up his uniform and stuffed it into the bag, along with his boater. He then pushed the sports bag back under the headstone and hoped it would stay there until his return. Checking his jacket pocket for his wallet and A to Z, he returned to the path which ran through the church yard and trotted down the hill, across The Grove Open Space and over Lowlands Road, entering the station, up the steps, from the back. He queued, impatiently, at the ticket window, bought a child's return to High Barnet station, and made his way down to the platform. Five minutes later, the tube train arrived and he climbed aboard. He collapsed onto a vacant seat and blew a sigh of relief, which lifted his fringe off his forehead. He was feeling quite elated, mostly from the adrenalin rush of his daring escape.

The vomiting trick was an old favourite. He had acquired the skill of throwing up at will, after a bout of food poisoning. Since then, he only had to remember how that felt and his stomach would do the rest. He had used the trick many times in the past to get out of things he didn't want to do and, so far, no one had sussed it was a rouse – though he thought he might have blown it with this escapade. He was banking on the fact that no one would have time to check that he made it to the San until morning break, at the earliest, by which time, the Inquest would be well under way. He would then have to be reported missing, after which, there would be a protracted discussion on where he might be and why, and, ultimately, the realisation that it could be related to the Carl Powers Inquest. The adults would then have to figure out where that would be taking place, check it out and, having established the time and place, send someone to retrieve him. He figured that should take another hour, at least, therefore two hours' into the proceedings. He hoped that would be enough.

He had to admit, he was finding this whole situation extremely enjoyable. He didn't think he had ever felt so alive and Mr Anders' humorous suggestion that he devote his life to solving crimes did not seem such a bad idea, at all. To experience the thrill of the chase every day? That could become addictive, he thought, and smiled to himself, as the tube train bore him off on his adventure.

ooOoo

Sherlock arrived at High Barnet station just after nine thirty, giving him half an hour to walk the almost mile to the Court. He did it in ten minutes, without too much extra effort. When he poled up outside the building, he saw there were several boys of about his own age, all accompanied by adults, milling around in front of the main entrance. He could only assume that they had been called as witnesses or, perhaps they were friends of the dead boy who wanted to see the outcome. He saw this as his passport into the building. He would tag onto one of these family groups and blend into the background. In the end, it was ridiculously easy to do just that, and, at five to ten, when the doors to the court room were opened, Sherlock wandered in and took a seat in the public gallery, at the back, near the exit.

The Coroner's Court, Sherlock discovered, was very different to a normal court – not that he had ever been in a normal one but he had seen court room dramas on the TV, so had a rough idea what he had been expecting. This court had no jury and no prosecuting or defending council. The Coroner sat where the judge would have sat and he asked all the questions. No one wore wigs or gowns, either. The proceedings began with one of the officers of the court giving an explanation of what the court hoped to achieve, which was to establish cause of death and to decide whether this was a suspicious death or a natural one. Then the coroner asked the police officer, DI Wignall, to describe the circumstances of the death, which he did. He simply stated that, during a race, one of the swimmers seemed to have a sort of seizure in the water and had to be retrieved from the pool and that, in spite of all efforts, it had not been possible to resuscitate him and he was declared dead at the scene.

The coroner then called the pathologist who had performed the post mortem examination and asked him to go over his report. The pathologist explained that this boy seemed fit and active, had no abnormalities that could be detected and that the cause of death was drowning, evidenced by water in the lungs. He did highlight that, considering the amount of time the boy was in the water before being rescued, there was a rather large amount of water, as though the boy had simply relaxed and allowed the water to flow into his lungs, unimpeded. Sherlock thought this significant. Surely there was an autonomic reflex which closed the trachea, to at least restrict the flow of the water? But the doctor then went on to say that, if the boy was unconscious following a fit, it could be expected that water would enter the lungs unimpeded.

The coroner asked the doctor whether there was anything found in the examination of the boy's brain to suggest he might have suffered from epilepsy or some other condition which might have caused him to have a seizure. The pathologist replied that there were no abnormalities of the brain and that epilepsy and similar conditions were difficult to diagnose post mortem as the normal means of diagnosis was an EEG, which required the brain to be functioning and giving off electrical impulses. He also stated that there was nothing in the boy's medical history to suggest he might be epileptic, however, individuals sometimes developed epilepsy when they reached puberty, which this boy was about to do, before his untimely demise.

The coroner then called witnesses. Several of the boys gave their account of what had preceded the incident. They described how Carl had prepared for the race exactly as he always did, by changing into his speedos and swimming hat and applying his aqueous cream. 'Aqueous cream?' Sherlock thought. If someone wanted to introduce a noxious substance into a person's system, what better means to use than a topically applied cream? When the Coroner asked why he applied aqueous cream, the pathologist explained that this would be to protect his skin from the drying effect of the chemicals in the water, since he suffered from eczema.

Some adult witnesses were then called and they all gave a similar account of what happened once the race began. It appeared that the boy began to have difficulty controlling his limbs on the first length but it was during the second length that he stopped swimming and simply sank to the bottom of the pool. Finally, the boy's own mother was called to give evidence. She had not been in the court during the earlier testimonies, and when she came in, she was assisted by a man, whom Sherlock assumed to be her husband, the boy's father. She was permitted to sit down, in the witness box. She looked very pale and ill. The Coroner asked her to describe what had happened that day.

In a frail voice, she gave a detailed account of arriving at the pool, the boy going off to the changing room and her going up to the public gallery, to watch. She said that, half an hour later, he son's race was announced, he walked out with the others and she thought then that he was walking oddly, as though his limbs felt heavy. So he was already showing signs of distress before he entered the pool, Sherlock noted. His mother thought he looked puzzled, too. When she tried to relate what happened next, she became very distressed and started to ramble but Sherlock distinctly heard her say,

'But where are his trainers? He loved those trainers. I wanted to bury him in those trainers. And his skin cream, where is that? I know he had it.' At this point, the Coroner decided he had all the information he needed and told the lady she could step down. She seemed pretty incoherent by then and was assisted out of the court room, by the man who brought her and a lady.

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of his seat, now, his mind racing. Had someone tampered with the skin cream, put something in it which, once applied, got into the boy's blood stream and caused the seizure that resulted in his death? He had no idea how the trainers could point either to the cause of death or to the killer but he was absolutely convinced that they were the key piece of evidence. He was hoping against hope that the Coroner had heard what the lady said about the trainers and the skin cream and that he realised how significant those two items were. Unfortunately, he was to be disappointed. After some general rambling, the Coroner pronounced that he was satisfied that the cause of death was drowning due to suffering a seizure in the water and that the case was concluded. At this point, Sherlock could not control himself. He jumped to his feet and shouted,

'NO! What about the trainers? Who took the trainers? Why did they take the trainers? And where is the aqueous cream?' Every pair of eyes in the court room turned to stare at Sherlock but he was completely oblivious. The Coroner looked up at him and said, in a very stern voice,

'Young man, I don't know who you are but kindly conduct yourself in an appropriate manner in my court or I will have you removed!'

Sherlock was frantic. He had pinned all his hopes on the Coroner seeing the significance of the missing footwear but he had not – and he had missed the second significant absence – the skin cream. All the other boys had said they saw Carl Powers apply it but the cream had not been found. Sherlock ran down the steps to the front of the public gallery and, leaning over the balcony rail, shouted,

'You MUST see the importance of the trainers and the skin cream! YOU MUST!'

At that point, two pairs of hands caught hold of him from behind and he was forcibly removed from the court room by two security guards. He did not go quietly but continued to shout about the shoes and the cream until he was out in the foyer and the doors to the court room had closed behind him. The security guards frog-marched him to a small interview room, normally used by council to talk, in private, to clients. Once inside the room, he was pushed down onto a chair and the two guards stood over him, looking stern, with their arms folded.

'What is your name, young man?' one of them asked, at long last. Sherlock told them his name.

'And where are your parents?' the other one asked. Sherlock answered honestly.

'I don't really know. I think they might both be out of the country.' The two men looked at one another, raised their eyebrows and gave a collective sigh.

ooOoo


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Harrow School is a real place but all of the characters and events depicted are entirely fictitious. I am just using Harrow as a location in which to ground the plot.**

**Chapter Seventeen**

At morning break, the duty tutor from The Park ran into Buri Anders in the Senior Common Room.

'Oh, hi, Buri, how's that Holmes boy? He really was not well this morning. I had to send him to the San. Threw up all over the breakfast table.'

'Yes, the boys said he'd been ill. I must ring the San and see how he is. They might need to send him home, if he's infectious. These vomiting bugs can spread like wildfire once they take hold,' Buri replied, and went over to the phone on the desk by the window. He dialled the four digit code for the San, on the internal system. It was picked up on the third ring.

'Medical Centre,' the nurse answered cheerfully. The school nurses had been trying for years to persuade the school staff to call their domain the Medical Centre but old habits die hard so it still remained, to one and all, 'the San', short for Sanatorium.

'Oh, hi, sister,' Buri began, 'Buri Anders here, resident tutor at Gayton. I believe you have one of mine there. I was just wondering how he is?'

'Oh, who might that be then, Mr Anders?' the nurse asked.

'Sherlock Holmes, came in this morning, severe case of puking,' Buri explained.

'Erm, let me check the board,' the nurse mused then replied, 'No, we don't have a Sherlock Holmes. We don't have anyone from your house, at all.'

'Oh, I must have been mistaken. Maybe he went to his matron. I'm surprised she didn't bring him to you, though. Never mind, I'll ring The Park. Thanks.' Buri hung up, beginning to feel apprehensive. He rang the number for the matron's surgery at The Park and Reba answered straight away.

'Hi, Reba, you don't happen to have our old friend Holmes there, do you?' Buri asked, knowing the answer even before he asked the question.

'No, Buri. I haven't seen him since yesterday lunch time. He hasn't done another bunk, has he?' she asked, equally sure of the answer.

'Oh, God,' Buri groaned. 'There is the faintest hope that he has gone back to Gayton and put himself to bed, I suppose.'

'I'll meet you there,' said Reba, and grabbed her coat and hand bag, slamming the door to her Surgery as she left.

He, being closest, arrived first. He ran up the stairs to Sherlock's room and threw open the door – empty. He sat down on the bed, in resignation. Reba arrived moments later and they exchanged meaningful looks.

'When was that Inquest scheduled for, do you think,' Buri asked.

'Inquest? What, for the boy who drowned? You don't think….?' Reba began

'That is exactly what I think,' Buri concluded. They both went down to the tutors' room on the ground floor and Buri took out the phone book, looked up Coroner's Court and found the one that covered Harrow. He dialled the number, had a short conversation and then hung up. He turned to Reba.

'It started at ten o'clock this morning, in Barnet,' he related.

'Do you have a lesson next period?' Reba asked.

'No, as it happens, I'm free now until after lunch, when I have my mountain biking activity,' Buri replied.

'Let's go,' she said. They hurried back up to The Park and got into Reba's car. She thrust a map book into Buri's hands and said,

'You're the navigator,' then she started the engine and turned onto the street.

ooOoo

One of the security men left the interview room, whilst the other continued to glower at Sherlock. After a relatively short time, the man returned, with DI Wignall. 'What did you say your name was,' the DI asked. Sherlock obliged a second time.

'You're the little tosser from the posh school, aren't you?' he rasped, pointing an accusing finger at Sherlock.

'If you mean, by that, that I am a pupil of Harrow School, then, yes, I am,' Sherlock, replied, indignantly. He had just about had enough of these morons who couldn't even spot a murder when it happened right under their noses. Who knows where the conversation might have gone had not Reba and Buri arrived just at that moment, made enquiries at the security desk and been directed to the interview room. Sherlock saw them approaching, over the shoulder of the DI and he stood up, looking both smug and apprehensive in equal measures. Buri spoke first.

'Sherlock, there you are!' The DI and the two guards turned to look at the two newcomers.

'You know this child, do you?' the DI asked.

'We do, officer. He goes to our school, Harrow School. I am his resident tutor and this lady is his matron. We've come to take him back to school,' he ventured.

'Not so fast, sir, if you don't mind. This little juvenile delinquent has just caused uproar in a court of law. He may have some charges to face, such as Contempt of Court, for one,' the DI expounded, full of self-righteous indignation. Buri and Reba stepped forward into the interview room, which was now rather crowded, having six persons in it. However, the guards decided that their presence was no longer required and took their leave, so that left just four occupants. They all sat down, round the table.

Buri then proceeded to present the case for the defence, arguing that Sherlock had only intended to see justice done and, being young and naive, had not realised that his outburst was actually against the law. He went on to say that Sherlock's interest in the case would now be redundant, since the Coroner had ruled on the death and there was nothing further to be gained by pursuing it.

'I could appeal against the verdict,' Sherlock put in, since his research had shown that it was possible to appeal the verdict of a Coroner's Court. Buri turned to him with a hard stare and said,

'You could, Sherlock, but you aren't going to, are you?' he finished, emphasising the last two words.

'I suppose not,' Sherlock muttered, and sank into his seat.

Buri then went on to explain that Sherlock's father was a senior figure in the diplomatic corps and that, as such, had considerable influence in high places and, frankly, the chances of getting a conviction were slim to nil so it would wreak havoc with the officer's success statistics, were he to proceed with a prosecution. The DI saw the veracity of that last point and agreed, unwillingly to release Sherlock, without charge but with a caution, into the care of Buri and Reba. They all shook hands, though Sherlock and the DI did eyeball one another at the same time, then left the court building.

'Sherlock, you have no idea how much trouble you are going to be in this time,' Buri commented, as they walked down Wood Street, toward where Reba had parked the car. 'But I think you can pretty much guarantee that you will be rusticated for at least a week and that your stay in Gayton might be extended to the end of this term.'

'Really?' replied Sherlock, with a broad smile, giving a little skip, as he strode along. Reba and Buri could not help but laugh, even though they knew it would only encourage him.

ooOoo

As Sherlock, Reba and Buri left the court building, a pair of liquid brown eyes gazed at them, from an elfin face that twisted with an expression of intense hatred. The boy stood in the shadows, by the entrance to the building, and watched the trio walk down the road, until they rounded a corner and disappeared. He had heard the man call that boy 'Sherlock'. That was an unusual name. There can't be many Sherlocks in the world, he thought. Just then, his mother came out of the court building.

'Ah, there you are, Jimmy. What are you doing out here? I've been looking all over for you,' she said.

'Ah, sorry, mammie, I just wanted some fresh air. That was pretty horrible, that Inquest, don't you think. That poor boy! What a shame!' Jimmy replied.

'Ah, that's so sweet of you, my darling wee man. Even though he beat you to a place in the final, you still care that he died. I do understand why you were so determined to be here. But I'm glad it's all over with. Now, we need to get going. Our flight leaves Heathrow at three o'clock and I have to go to Harley Street, to my dermatologist, and collect the Botox for my next injection, first. I'd still love to know what happened to the phial I collected last time we were here. I was so sure it was in my handbag, when we left the hotel that morning. Still, there's no point wondering about that. I don't suppose I'll ever know what happened to it. Come along, then, Jimmy. Are you hungry, son? Shall we go somewhere nice to eat lunch, yeah?' Taking the boy's hand, the mother led her son down the road, toward the tube station.

ooOoo

Sherlock's disciplinary meeting was short and not particularly sweet. His father attended, which was, in itself, disconcerting. He spent the whole meeting avoiding eye contact with his son and, when asked for his opinion, said he was thoroughly ashamed of the boy's behaviour and, were he to be rusticated, he would make certain that he had such a rotten time he would think twice before ever behaving in such a manner again. It was decided that Sherlock would be rusticated for a week, for absconding twice in eight days, and that his place in Gayton would be extended by four weeks, to the end of the Michaelmas term. From Sherlock's point of view, this was as expected. However, the worst part came after the meeting was over. Walking back to Gayton, to collect his things for the journey home – since his rustication was to begin immediately – his father informed him that he must bring his violin home and he would not be allowed to bring it back when he returned. Sherlock's heart sank.

When he arrived back at the house, he found his matron waiting to help him pack. She could see by his facial expression that things had not gone well. His father went to speak with Mr Russell, the HSM, whilst he and Reba went up to his room.

'Are you alright, Sherlock?' Reba asked.

'Not, really, Matron. I don't mind about the rustication and I'm quite pleased about the extended stay here but I will miss my violin. I suppose I should have realised that my father would make me leave it at home again.' Reba looked at him, this picture of dejection, and then said,

'Just wait here a minute.' She left the room and went down to the Common Room. Last summer, when another Park boy was in Gayton, he had told her about the lost property cupboard, at the back of the Common Room, which, according to this boy, contained all manner of weird and wonderful objects including a stuffed owl. It wasn't the stuffed owl that she came to find but another item he had mentioned. She found what she was looking for and returned to Sherlock's room.

'I'm fairly sure that this comes under the heading of 'collusion' but, since I believe that being deprived of your violin was really the start of all your troubles, I feel no guilt what so ever,' she declared, placing on the bed an old violin case. She opened it up to reveal a violin and a bow. She looked at Sherlock, who was staring at the strange violin, with a stunned expression.

'It's a bit dirty, Matron. I would have to give it a good clean or my parents would never fall for it,' he commented.

'Get on with it then,' she told him. 'I'll pack your stuff.' Reba started to take clothes out of Sherlock's cupboard and drawers and pack them in his sports bag whilst he set to work with his duster, cleaning the dust and rosin off the body and finger board of the 'doppelganger' violin, replacing the missing E string and tuning it. The bow was in a pretty bad way, with a lot of damaged hairs but he would just tell his parents, if they asked, that he had been using it a lot and it needed to be rehaired. Having made the violin look more serviceable, he exchanged it with his own, putting it into his case and putting his into the other case, then pushed his own violin into the cupboard under his bed. He finished his own packing, then, and walked with Reba, down the stairs, to the inner lobby. His father was there, waiting with Mr Russell. He fixed Sherlock with a disapproving glare, shook hands with the HSM, and walked out of the house to the waiting staff car. Sherlock said goodbye to Mr Russell, who gave him a sheaf of assignments to complete during his week away. Then he turned to Reba, placed his sports bag and violin case down on the floor, put his arms round her and gave her a tight hug.

'Thank you so much, Matron,' he said. 'I promise I will be good when I come back.' She hugged him back and told him to make sure he did all his work while he was at home, so he would not have to catch up when he returned, although she was fairly sure he wouldn't find that such a hardship, he was such a bright boy.

ooOoo

Sherlock survived his week of rustication without any obvious negative side effects. He was pretty accustomed to being ignored and he only had to put up with his father's disapproval for a couple of days before he went away again. His mother was as busy as ever with her social commitments, so he enjoyed being spoiled by Mrs Martin and her cooking, and spent his spare daytime hours out with the game keeper, Mr Archer, stocking the pheasant feeders, checking where the birds were most numerous and looking for signs of predation, mostly from foxes and buzzards. On his return to school, the following week, he was greeted by a large proportion of the residents of Gayton, led by a very excited Reeves.

'Hey, Holmes, the hero!' he shouted. Sherlock felt embarrassed but also quite thrilled to be the centre of the other boys' attention. Reeves put his arm around Sherlock's shoulder and spoke to him, in a conspiratorial manner.

'Rumour has it, Holmes old boy, that you are shit hot at the old debating lark, am I right?' Sherlock conceded that he had been known to give a good argument, when required.

'Well, that's good to know, because you and I are representing Gayton in the Junior Debating competition, tonight,' Reeves explained.

'Tonight?' Sherlock exclaimed. 'What's the proposition?'

'This house believes that the end will always justify the means.'

'And are we for or against?'

'Oh, for, of course!'

'When am I supposed to prepare? Do my research and what not?' he asked.

'I have great faith in you,' Reeves assured him. 'Come on, we've got about two hours before bully off. Let's get cracking,' and he dragged Sherlock off to the Vaughan Library.

This place maybe isn't so bad, Sherlock thought. I think I'm beginning to enjoy myself.

ooOoo

**Well, there it is, folks, my take on the back story to The Great Game, the connection between Sherlock and Moriarty, how he first came to the attention of the Master Criminal and why Moriarty hated him so much. Hope you liked it!**

**Many thanks to everyone who 'followed' and 'favourited' and extra thanks to everyone who reviewed my story. Your comments are greatly appreciated and were hugely inspirational.**

**I would love to do another Teenlock story, one day, when he's a bit older. I'm going to leave him in peace for now.**


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